Seepferdchen
by CorwinOfAmber
Summary: A high tech crew is kidnapping Massive Dynamic scientists, Walter is singing about seahorses, and William Bell may be involved with it all, again. Just another case at Fringe Division. A pseudo-sequel to Höllenhund, but it's not necessary to read that first, though it'd be nice if you did!
1. Chapter 1

Massive Dynamic had been one of the ten largest corporations in the world every year for the last decade. It had top secret contracts with governments around the world to develop everything from advanced weapons to autonomous drones to inoculations for biological weapons.

Massive Dynamic also had competitors, and to some extent, enemies. Corporations and foreign governments sometimes resorted to espionage to get at the secrets it held. As a result M.D. had one of the most elaborate security systems ever devised, consisting of ubiquitous electronic surveillance and a cadre of highly trained armed guards that would put some national armies to shame.

Of course, none of that mattered if you had someone working from the inside.

A plain, white van, similar to any other van used by the multitude of service companies in New York, pulled into the secured parking lot of the corporate headquarters of Massive Dynamic. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and there were only a small number of vehicles in the garage.

The van was owned by a vending machine company with a contract to service the machines in the building. Unfortunately for that company, which would surely lose its contract after this, the van had been stolen just five minutes before it pulled into the lot.

Inside, three people were having a discussion about the job they were about to undertake.

"I have a bad feeling about this one," the athletic man said to the other occupants of the van.

They were dressed almost identically in grey coveralls. The speaker was tall and muscular, with close cropped blond hair and blue eyes. He was somewhere in his middle thirties, and had a noticeable scar on his left cheek, the mark of some past violent misadventure.

The second was a young black man, wiry, goateed, wearing a pair of thick prescription eyeglasses. He sat in the driver's seat and typed rapidly on an expensive laptop propped against the steering wheel, but listened intently to the conversation between the other two.

The last was a young woman. Slim and fit, she also had blond hair and blue eyes, and bore such a resemblance to the blond man that they must have been related. The hacker thought they were siblings. She appeared to be in her late twenties to early thirties in age.

"You always have bad feelings," she said, "...and it's never done you a bit of good."

The woman had a very slight European accent, the black man noted. A hacker for hire, he had never met them before today.

The blonde man frowned.

"My feelings are never wrong!" he growled.

The woman smirked, reached over and caressed his cheek, the one with the scar.

"Then how did you get that?" she asked, then slapped him playfully.

"By not listening to my feelings," he muttered.

The black man interrupted their banter.

"I'm in. I can take the cameras offline anytime, but I don't know how long 'til the admin notices. I'd guess fifteen or twenty minutes. And... Easton is headed down to his car. He'll be there in thirty seconds."

The woman nodded to her companion, and they both pulled black wool ski masks over their heads. The man opened a black plastic case at his feet, to reveal a bulky, sci-fi looking firearm, which he hefted enthusiastically.

"Do it now," the blonde woman said, and opened the rear doors of the van without waiting for an acknowledgement.

The pair strode rapidly through the underground parking garage of Massive Dynamic, woman in the lead, toward an older man who was just about to open the door to his black sedan.

"Doctor Easton?" the woman called.

When Easton looked up, her companion pointed the bulky device at his chest and pulled the trigger. A barely perceptible shimmer flowed through the air, followed by a perfectly straight burst of blue-white lightning, a loud electrical crackling noise, and the smell of ozone.

Easton dropped unconscious where he stood.

"I love this thing," the tall man said with a smile, brandishing the energy weapon, "...it's better than hitting the poor schlub with a rifle butt!"

The woman smiled. "Unless the poor schlub happens to have a pacemaker. Thankfully, none of our targets do."

The kidnappers each grabbed one of Easton's arms and dragged the unconscious scientist to the waiting van their accomplice had pulled up behind them, and placed him into the back. They jumped in after him, closed the doors and the van was on the streets of New York seconds later.

* * *

It was three o'clock in the morning, and Peter Bishop was wide awake, wearing a tee shirt and boxer shorts, sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of Walter's homegrown herbal tea. With his right hand, he played intently with a deck of cards. He cut the deck, shuffled it, and dealt to imaginary players sitting at the table, all with his off hand. He smiled to himself, as it brought back memories of the year he'd spent dealing blackjack in Vegas. That'd been a good year.

With an quick sweep of his hand, he gathered the cards together, and switched to his left. Cutting the deck was no problem, but when he tried the one handed shuffle he could do since he was ten years old, his hand cramped painfully, and he sprayed the stack of cards onto the floor.

Peter sighed. This year wasn't turning out to be such a good one. For two months now, ever since a telepathic Rottweiler had gnawed on his arm, he'd lost much of the fine coordination in his left hand. But then, his definition of "fine coordination" was different than that of most people. His near ambidexterity meant the injury didn't really affect his day to day living, just his treasured self taught musical and sleight of hand skills.

He hadn't gone near the piano in the lab since the dog attack. The thought of playing at anything less than his virtuoso best filled him with absolute dread.

Peter crouched down on the floor, picking up the cards. Behind him, on the counter, his phone rang, startling him, and he clunked his head on the underside of the counter. Swearing, he reached up and grabbed his phone, sat down on the floor to answer without looking at the display. Only one person ever called the Bishop house at 3 a.m.

"Hey!" he answered, "I take it we've got a case?"

"Hey! You were up, already?" Olivia said, "...is everything alright?"

"Yeah just...having a little trouble sleeping, that's all. What's up?" Peter said.

"Broyles just called. He wouldn't give details over the phone, but he wants us to meet at the lab in an hour."

"Okay...I'll get Walter around and meet you there."

"Would it help if I picked you guys up on my way in?" Olivia asked.

"Actually? It would. Thanks!"

Peter hung up the phone, guzzled the last of his tea, gathered his cards and replaced them in a drawer in the kitchen island, then walked into the living room, where his father normally slept on the foldout couch.

"Walter, wake up! Olivia will be here soon." he said loudly, with a clap of his hands.

Walter woke instantly, his face lighting up at the mention of the FBI agent's name.

"Excellent! Do you need to borrow a condom?" he said.

Walter threw the covers off and sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Although he wore a tee shirt, the scientist was wearing nothing below the waist.

"No!" Peter paused, his train of thought broken by his father's state of partial undress.

"Good! Stay safe, son. Who knows how many siblings you would have had, eh? Although if you wanted to give me grandchildren with..."

Fortunately, the doorbell rang at that moment, causing Walter to forget the topic at hand. Peter would have to compliment Olivia on her timing later.

"Who in the world could be at the door at this hour?" Walter asked.

"Walter...put your pants on." Peter insisted.

"Every year, four people die while putting their pants on," Walter grumbled.

He bent down to retrieve his boxer shorts from the floor.

"And a hundred people die from falling coconuts," Peter replied, "...it's no reason NOT to live in the tropics."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, both Phillip Broyles and Astrid Farnsworth, always the most punctual of the Fringe team, were already at the lab when Olivia, Peter and Walter arrived. They were sitting on either side of one of the labs monitors, sipping coffee.

"Agent Dunham, Doctor Bishop, Peter," Broyles said when they had settled in with cups of coffee around him, "...sorry to wake you up so early, but it's an urgent matter. Agent Farnsworth?"

Astrid clicked a mouse, and a grainy black and white video began playing. They crowded around the screen for a clearer view of the kidnapping that had occurred earlier that morning.

"Four hours ago, a Massive Dynamic research scientist, Doctor Melvin Easton, was kidnapped - right out of the secured parking garage at Massive Dynamic in New York. Apparently the kidnappers stole a service van, hacked into the security systems, turned off the surveillance cameras remotely, and were waiting for him at his car."

"Then how do we have video of the kidnapping?" Olivia asked.

"The kidnappers underestimated William Bell's paranoia. There is an entirely separate security system that only he and Nina Sharp have knowledge of or access to."

They all smirked at that.

"Well, I suppose paranoia isn't all bad," Olivia said, as she accepted a thick manila file folder from Broyles, and began rapidly paging through it, committing the information inside to her eidetic memory.

"Ah, but it isn't paranoia if somebody is really after you," Peter said with a grin.

Broyles ignored their banter and continued his explanation.

"I have people downtown running facial recognition software on the two visible kidnappers. We should hear within the hour if they get any hits. Although technically he worked for Massive Dynamic, Doctor Easton was regularly contracted out to the Defense Department to work on advanced weapon projects. Any one of those projects could be the reason he was abducted."

"So, somebody has to ask," Peter said, "Kidnapping isn't our usual bailiwick, even if it involves an important scientist. How did we get the case, and not the regular FBI?"

"We're getting the case because it isn't a kidnapping. He was found two hours ago, at home asleep in his bed. Doctor Easton claims he was there since he left work at midnight."

"Okay, that does make it one of ours," Peter answered with a wan smile.

"Sir?" Olivia interrupted, holding up the file she was reading, "...most of this is useless. Any details of what Easton was working on have been redacted."

Broyles nodded. "That's all right. Massive Dynamic has a plane waiting at the airport for us. We can get the information we need from Ms. Sharp directly, and then examine Doctor Easton at their labs."

"Melvin Easton, Melvin Easton," Walter muttered, "...why is that name familiar?"

Peter's eyes shot wide open with sudden recognition and he choked on a mouthful of coffee. Astrid pounded on his back while he coughed, until he finally recovered.

"...because you talked to him on the phone last week, Walter," Peter finally managed, his voice hoarse.

All eyes turned to Walter.

"I talked to him last week?" Walter asked, dubious.

"Yeah, he called the landline at the house, and asked for you by name. I gave you the phone and went downstairs to fold laundry. When I came back up, you were just finishing your conversation with him. You called him Mel. I figured you knew him from school, or something."

"I don't remember that, at all," Walter said sheepishly, "...it's the change in my meds, my system is out of whack."

"His psychiatrist changed his prescription last week." Peter explained, "Since then he's been..."

Peter broke off, searched for a polite term, then shrugged.

"Well, it can't have been important, or I would have remembered. He may just have been an admirer." Walter said with a shrug.

"You have...admirers?" Astrid said, so low that only Olivia heard.

"Well, we have to get to the airport. If you can recall what the conversation was about, Doctor Bishop, it could be helpful," Broyles said.

"I'll try my best," Walter replied with a nod.

Broyles phone buzzed and he answered, then listened for a minute before replying.

"Good work. Send the details to Agent Dunham's email, and call me if you get anything else."

Broyles hung up and spoke.

"They got a hit on the man in the video. Carl Gessler, former Army Ranger, dropped off the radar about ten years back and may have been working as a mercenary overseas. Let's head for the airport."

Ten minutes later, the team was in the big black government SUV and on the way to the airport.

"Okay, my neurologist appointment is postponed until Tuesday," Peter said, stashing his phone back into his coat.

"Tuesday." Olivia repeated, "What time?"

"You don't have to drive me," Peter said.

"I want to! What time?" Olivia repeated.

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Okay...Nine thirty."

"For some reason, I associate Mr. Easton with seahorses," Walter blurted, from the back seat, "Why would that be, Peter?"

Walter was gesticulating spastically and humming to himself, behavior that Olivia hadn't seen in the scientist in over a year.

"I don't know, Walter. I was in the basement, remember?" Peter replied.

Walter nodded, and continued humming. The tune was distinctive, but Olivia had never heard it before.

She looked over at Peter, her eyes asking a silent question.

"Sumner had Walter keep a diary last month, of what drugs he was taking. Of course, when he saw the twelve page list, he freaked out, and insisted Walter stop self medicating and stick to only his prescribed meds. This..." Peter sighed, "is the result."

"But...Walter was a lot better before..." Olivia whispered.

"Yeah. Walter is more sane on more drugs, go figure."

"What are your thoughts on how Doctor Easton didn't know he'd been kidnapped?" Olivia asked, as she pulled into a parking spot near the runway they'd been directed to.

Beyond the fence, a sleek private jet was revving up its engines, the Massive Dynamic logo glittering pink and orange in the rising sun on its side.

"First guess? Replaced by a Shapeshifter. If he isn't, then this becomes one of our really weird cases."

Olivia smiled. "Sad that Shapeshifter's don't qualify as weird anymore."

"What I want to know is what he talked to Walter about. But then, that would have been the human Easton. We may never learn what that was about."

"Is there anything I can do to help with that?" Olivia asked.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. Get Sumner to let Walter go back to his old drug regimen? He really was better on that."

"I could talk to Broyles. Maybe he could lean on him for us."

"Worth a shot."

* * *

Two hours later, Olivia stared through the one way glass at the perturbed figure of Doctor Melvin Easton, as he sat alone at a white plastic table in a white walled room.

The plane ride had been disturbing. She hadn't seen Walter for over a week, since the dolphin assassin case had closed. In that time, his medications had been changed and the mentally disturbed scientist had regressed terribly.

On the plane he had begun hallucinating, convinced he was seeing something crawling across the wing. Peter and Astrid had spent the flight reassuring Walter that the monster on the wing wasn't going to crash the plane, and Olivia and Broyles had spent the flight reassuring the pilot that his passenger wouldn't cause said crash.

When they had touched down, fortunately, Walter calmed down considerately, only occasionally muttering something completely off the wall to himself, or bursting into song.

Peter of course, was now a complete wreck. The tension evident in his shoulders made hers hurt, and he wouldn't take his eyes off his father, watching him for the slightest disturbance.

As for Doctor Easton - he looked pretty good for having been violently kidnapped just hours before. Remarkably so, in fact.

"Ms. Sharp, did you do a blood test, to see if he is a Shapeshifter?" Olivia asked.

Next to her, the Chief Operating Officer of Massive Dynamic nodded. "Practically the first thing we did when he insisted he hadn't been kidnapped. He's human."

Peter and Walter stood behind the two women, peering over Olivia's and Nina's shoulders, respectively.

"Have you examined him, physically?" Walter asked, "The kidnappers were kind of rough. I would expect there to be physical indications."

Nina nodded. "Yes, over his objections. There are signs of a struggle. Ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, and a burn or bruise on his chest, where the energy weapon seemed to strike him. He doesn't remember getting them."

Behind them, the door to the observation room opened, and Brandon Fayette, clad in his ever present lab coat, entered.

"Which is it?" Walter asked, "...a burn, or a bruise? They are distinct trauma."

"Both." Brandon answered, "He suffered a flash burn, and a bruise underneath. And we found some sort of markings on his head, eight of them."

Brandon shrugged before continuing.

"As far as I can tell, it's Melvin, and according to the polygraph, he sincerely believes he was asleep in bed, while we have him on tape being kidnapped in the parking garage."

"Interesting. That gives us a clue as to how the weapon operates, at least...I'm still going to want to examine him, to find what you missed." Walter said, arrogance dripping from his tone, "...do I have a forensic lab at my disposal, or do we have to fly him to Boston?"

Nina gave Walter an appraising look, seeming to assess where he was on the scale from psychotic to lucid, then nodded.

"Brandon will get you everything you need."

The younger scientist led Walter out of the room.

Peter sighed.

"I'd better stick with Walter. I'll call you if we find anything."

Peter followed Walter and Brandon out of the room.

"How is Walter?" Nina Sharp asked. "He seems...out of sorts."

Olivia glanced at Broyles before replying.

"He...had some difficulties on the plane."

"So I heard. Something about a change in his meds?"

Olivia nodded. "Yes. Apparently Doctor Sumner convinced Walter to stop self-medicating."

"Hmm. Well back to the matter at hand. How would you like to proceed, Agents?"

Broyles finished his coffee before proceeding.

"I think we need to figure out how the kidnappers turned off the normal security cameras."

Nina nodded. "I'll make our Mr. Becker, our chief system administrator, available to you for an interview. He should be finished the preliminary audit by now."

"Ms. Sharp? We'd like to interview him alone," Olivia interjected.

Sharp produced her phone, "Of course. I'll make the arrangement. You can do the interview in the conference room down the hall."

* * *

"...And you're sure you've never seen me or talked to me before?" Walter asked Doctor Easton, as he reviewed the results of the various tests Easton had been given in the last two hours.

"Yes, I've never seen you, or talked with you on the phone, Doctor Bishop. I have heard of you, though." Easton replied.

Easton was reclining in a comfortable looking chair,, similar to those used in dentists offices. He was shirtless, with the painful looking brand of the burn/bruise from the energy weapon in full view. Around him were arrays of medical instruments and several scientists in white lab coats. He was remarkably calm after all that he'd been through in the past few hours.

"What have you heard?" Walter asked, using a finger to trace down a list of printed test results.

"Oh...people talk, you know. Wild rumors."

Walter smiled. "Most of those are probably true, actually."

"Then...I don't know what to say." Easton said.

The odd calm the man radiated was an anomaly in itself, Peter decided. It was as if he was on some sort of sedative, but nothing out of the ordinary had been detected in the numerous blood tests Massive Dynamic had conducted on him.

"Huh. That's funny." Walter said.

Walter seized a pen and drew several lines on the paper he was reading. Peter quietly stepped behind him and peeked over his shoulder. What Walter was drawing on was a cutaway drawing of Easton's skill. There were several dots on the outside, describing odd markings that had been found, eight in all. Walter had drawn lines connecting dots on opposite sides of Easton's skull, and drawn a circle around where all the lines crossed in the center.

"Brandon!" Walter yelled, "...shave Easton's head!"

"Walter," Peter interrupted him by stepping close and putting his hand on his father's shoulder. If Walter was slipping into one of his manic states, he wanted to within easy reach, if restraining him would be necessary.

"...Why do you want to shave his head?" Peter asked.

Walter pointed to the drawing he was holding. "All of the lines intersect in the upper part of Doctor Easton's hippocampus. The part of the brain that deals with converting short term memory to long term."

"That's interesting...considering that Easton doesn't remember being kidnapped. Do you think the kidnappers somehow erased his memory?"

Walter nodded, then reconsidered, waggled his hand in the air, a "so-so" gesture.

"Not exactly. I think the kidnappers somehow prevented those short term memories from being transcribed into long term memory. It would explain why he doesn't remember things that only happened a few hours ago. It's just a hypothesis, but one that fits to facts."

"Why do you want to shave his head?" Peter asked.

Walter gave Peter an odd look - as if he were the one behaving strangely.

"Why would I what?" he asked, clearly puzzled.

"You told Brandon to shave Easton's head, just a minute ago."

Walter hummed a few bars of an obscure song to himself, lost in thought, then shrugged.

"I don't remember that!"

Peter frowned. "Walter..."

The two of them were startled out of their conversation by Doctor Easton suddenly breaking into song.

_"Little seahorse_

_Swimming in a primal sea_

_Heartbeat like a_

_Leaf quaking in the breeze_

_I feel magic as coyote_

_In the middle of the moon-wild night"_

Easton nodded to Walter.

"That's the song you were just humming. It's stuck in my head, too."

Walter smiled broadly.

"Marvelous! I hear that song in my head all the time!"

The two scientists broke into song, leaving Peter and Brandon puzzled, and slightly embarrassed.

* * *

Mr. Becker was an extremely nervous young man, more used to dealing with computers than with people. Of course, he was currently being interviewed by three Federal agents over a criminal incident that occurred under his aegis - something that would probably make anybody nervous.

According to his file, which Olivia had paged through and memorized just before the interview started, he had a Ph.D in computer science, and mild cases of Asberger's Syndrome and social anxiety - which suited his employment with Massive Dynamic perfectly. If he did his job well, he wouldn't have to deal with people.

"The system was accessed through a hard-coded administrator account that we weren't aware of. That was how they turned off the cameras," Becker had blurted as soon as the interview began.

"Define 'Hard Coded'," Astrid asked.

"We...we found a chip on the main server board. Direct line to the CPU. It wasn't listed in the specs. It has a...shadow administrator account."

"Well, that's not good. Did somebody insert the chip recently?" Olivia asked.

Becker shook his head spastically. His hands hadn't stopped moving since the interview began. He was now tearing a paper coffee cup into strips of paper and arranging the strips into geometric shapes on the conference table.

"You don't understand. Everything we use here is homebrew. The hardware, the OS, everything. The chip was there since before I came to M.D. , since the system was installed."

"How long?"

Becker's shoulders shrugged.

"I think this system was installed ten years ago. It's been upgraded since, of course, but that chip was always there."

Broyles eyebrows shot for the ceiling.

"Are you saying that someone has had unfettered administrator access to Massive Dynamic's network for ten years?"

"Well...yes."

Broyles sighed and stood up. "I need to go make some phone calls..."

* * *

Peter, Walter, and Brandon were in another, smaller lab down the hall from where they had been examining Doctor Easton. After he had complained of being fatigued, they had let Easton return home, because what else was there to do? Easton didn't remember anything useful, and they'd already examined him as completely as anyone could without invasive surgery.

After Easton had left, the conversation had turned to the burn/bruise on his chest, and what sort of weapon could have left it. They had witnessed its use on tape, and had seen the result of its use on Easton's chest, and Walter and Brandon wanted to come up with a working theory as to the weapon's operation.

That was when Brandon had led them down the hall to his collection of zappers and rayguns.

Of course, he didn't call them that - to Brandon they were "prototype directed energy weapons". But to Peter's mind, they were zappers and rayguns.

Peter had experience with such weapons, having been zapped by an Observer gun last year, and using one himself a few months ago. He had apparently used up the gun's charge, or ammunition or whatever, because it had been non-functional afterwards, and given to Massive Dynamic for further study.

And here it was, inside a plastic display case, standing out among the collection of sci-fi weapons by its ordinariness.

Behind him, Walter and Brandon were happily arguing about the weapon seen on the kidnapping video.

"No, it couldn't be a laser," Walter was saying, "...lasers are only visible by reflected light. There wasn't enough particulate matter in the air to..."

"Well, if the laser ionized the air..." Brandon argued.

Acting on a hunch he'd had for months, Peter seized the small handgun he was staring at, pointed it at the far end of the room, and squeezed the trigger. A scintillating burst of light struck the wall, leaving a faint scorch mark and a small dent.

In stunned silence that followed, Peter grinned and put the Observer gun back on the table.

"Sorry. I had a hunch." he said.

"How...how did you do that?" Brandon asked. "That was so...cool!"

"This is the gun that Observer passed to me during the gunfight a few months back. It worked for me then, I figured it would still work. Somehow the Observer keyed it to only work for me."

Brandon gave him an excited grin.

"Do it again!"

* * *

At the end of a long day, the persons concerned with investigating the Easton kidnapping gathered in a conference room on the 20th floor of the Massive Dynamic building: Nina Sharp, Brandon Fayette, and Becker from Massive Dynamic; Agents Broyles, Dunham, and Farnsworth, Walter and Peter Bishop from Fringe Division.

Nina seemed to be showing off her technological toys - the conference room was a wonder, with a holographic projector in the center of the round table, and floor-to-ceiling touchscreen displays embedded in the walls.

The Federal Agents present were duly impressed and a little envious. Walter showed childlike wonder at the display. Peter seemed unfazed, withdrawn, and worried.

Olivia nudged him and mouthed, "How's Walter?"

"Fine, if you like seahorses," he whispered back.

Broyles stood and began speaking, before Olivia could ask what he meant.

"We're having this conference to sum up what we know and don't know about the investigation, before we retire for the evening. First, a chip was found in the core server of the Massive Dynamic mainframe. This chip supplied a hard-coded administrator account, which the kidnapper used to turn off the cameras in the underground parking garage, while they kidnapped Doctor Easton..."

"Wait," Peter interrupted, "...how do we know this conference isn't being watched, if somebody has that level of access?"

Everybody turned to the system administrator, Becker, who looked startled.

"We've shutdown the main system. All of this..." he gestured at the displays on the walls, "...is being run from a box under the table, which isn't connected to anything outside this room, and will be erased afterwards."

Broyles looked at Peter, who nodded.

"...back to my summary. We don't really have any idea why Easton was kidnapped, but we have to assume they got what they wanted from him, somehow erased his memory of the kidnapping and returned him to his bed in the space of a few hours. Doctor Bishop, do you have any theories about that?"

"Just speculation," Walter said. "...we found markings around his head, which intersect in his hippocampus. Possibly they interfered with his short-term memories being converted into long term ones. Maybe they used some sort of modulated electron beams. I need to run some experiments. When I get back to Harvard, I'll put up a few posters up asking for student volunteers."

Everybody stared at him in horror.

"I'm joking." Walter added, "...You people are always so serious."

Brandon raised his hand, as if he were a student in a classroom.

"We have a working theory as to how the stun weapon used on Easton works. We think it's a two stage weapon - first it fires a laser to ionize a path to the target, then it fires an electron beam, to shock it. Basically, it's an advanced taser."

"Well..." Broyles continued, "I've had an alert out for Gessler, the man caught on the video, all day, but no hits. The stolen service van hasn't been found, either. Apparently they're lying low. Until something new develops, I think we can put this case on hold, and go home."

"I'd suggest...we not take a plane this time." Peter said.

Broyles nodded.

"Don't worry. I've signed a vehicle out from the Federal motor pool. We're all driving back to Boston."

* * *

Tuesday morning arrived without anything out of the ordinary occurring. Walter appeared to return to somewhat normal behavior, for him at least. According to Peter, his symptoms had gradually tapered off over the weekend, leaving only a residual obsession with seahorses.

No more progress had been made in the case they were working. Federal, state and local authorities had been alerted to watch for Carl Gessler, but the kidnappers had apparently gone to ground.

There was still no indication as to why they had kidnapped Doctor Easton, who had suffered no ill effects and returned to work the following day.

Massive Dynamic was facing a Federal security audit as a result of the chip found in their computer system. As that was all being conducted over their heads, so to speak, nobody in Fringe Division would have any involvement with that part of the case.

Peter had expressed the interesting possibility that the entire thing had taken place to bring about the audit itself.

It was an odd unsolved case, but for once no one had died. But that didn't leave any less amount of paperwork, which Olivia was doing on her laptop while she waited for Peter to emerge from his neurologist's office.

`Olivia looked up when the big oak door opened. Peter emerged and flashed her a smile and a nod, then moved to the window to talk briefly with the receptionist while Olivia closed her laptop and put it back into its case.

"Friday, 8 am." Peter said when he walked up to her, accepting his jacket from her.

"Surgery?" she asked.

"Yes, finally. After that, I do some rehab and I should have a good left hand again."

"Amen," she said with a smile, "Let's go have lunch to celebrate."

_Note: Lyrics are from "Little Seahorse" by Bruce Cockburn, no infringement intended._

_6/30/12: Put in segment breaks that screwed up. Thanks Ouroboros75, for the suggestion._


	2. Chapter 2

Devin Randall, known in the hacker community by the UNIX moniker "/dev/random", rapped on the side door of an old, unused warehouse in Manhattan's Chinatown. After half a minute, he heard the door unlock from the inside, and he entered.

"Hey, Thor," he said to the hulking blonde man who had let him in, "...how's it hanging?"

Carl Gessler nodded and grinned, once again displaying his good humor, then pulled goggles over his eyes and returned to cutting the white van, stolen three nights ago, into scrap with an acetylene torch.

Dev appreciated the bigger man's quiet joviality, knowing the mercenary could probably snap his neck with one hand. Hell, the man could probably kill him with one thumb.

He walked further into the warehouse, picking his way between piles of scrap, and found the young blonde woman sitting at a card table typing on a laptop.

"Claire," he acknowledged her.

Devin had been surprised to find that it was the young woman, not the man, in charge of this illegal operation. But that had been before spending several hours watching her plan the Easton kidnapping. She had a quick mind, and an uncanny eye for detail.

"Mr. Randall," Claire said, without looking up from her laptop, "...I want you to stop boasting about your 'big job in New York' to your hacker buddies. It will get us caught before the operation is done."

"You've been...spying on me?"

Devin tried to mask his surprise with outrage.

"Just keeping an eye on my assets."

Devin shook his head.

"I have to keep my rep up. If people don't know I'm doing something, I won't get hired for anything."

Claire turned a stern gaze on him.

"If you're too talkative, I won't be able to hire you in the future. If this all works out though, I'll probably have room for you in my little crew. I can certainly float some work your way, at least."

Devin turned away and stared. Behind a chain-link cage, a fancy medical chair was waiting, surrounded by computers and instruments on swing-arms.

He gestured to the machine in the cage.

"How do I know you won't use that thing on me when we're done?" he asked.

Claire smirked.

"It's too late for that. If we wanted to erase your long term memories, we would have to cut open your skull, and remove parts of your brain. Too tricky to be practical. Easier to just pay you to go away."

Dev noted that she didn't say it was _impossible_, just not practical.

"Or kill me, I suppose..."

Claire frowned and shook her head.

"Not my style. Murder is for amateurs. Here..."

She tossed him a thick manila envelope filled with documents.

"That's our next target. Have that committed to memory by tomorrow evening."

Devin pulled out the documents and began perusing them.

"Doctor Jason Redmond. Another M.D. employee?"

Claire nodded.

"Retired. Enjoys taking care of his grandchildren on weekends, so we have to do it tomorrow night. Fortunately, he lives nearby."

Devin sat down and opened the packet and began to study its contents.

"Claire? If you don't mind my asking, how did you choose your career? You look like you should be a Pilates instructor, rather than dumping ROM from old scientists' brains. Now, your brother...he looks like he should be doing this kind of thing."

"Brother?" the woman gave a throaty chuckle, "...we're closely related, but not like that. As for my career, it kind of chose me, not the other way around. I'm older than I look."

Claire stood and stretched, and Dev appreciated the view. Then she called to the other man in the warehouse, "Carl!"

Carl turned off the torch, removed his mask and walked over.

"We need another van," Claire said, "...go work your magic.'

Carl nodded, seemingly unfazed that he would soon be cutting yet another stolen vehicle into scrap.

"Any color preference?"

* * *

The next week passed with no more progress in the Easton kidnapping case. With nothing else to do, Olivia and Astrid assisted with cases at the Federal Building while the Bishops got into their usual shenanigans at the lab, and Thursday evening rolled around almost before she noticed it.

Olivia was almost soaking in a warm tub of water - standing naked with one toe in, in fact - when she heard her phone buzz from where it lay on her nightstand. Never one to ignore the phone if she could help it, she sighed, pulled her robe back on, and answered on the sixth ring. It was Peter.

"Hey Olivia. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important, but something about this case keeps bugging me."

"What's that, Peter?"

"I don't know, that's what bugs me! It's something about that chip in the M.D. computer system."

Olivia chuckled.

"Have you talked to Walter about it? Maybe he can hypnotize you, or give you some herbs or something."

"Oh, hell, no. He's already treating me like a bird with a broken wing. It's going to be hell for me after the surgery, you know. Anyways, I called my buddy Akeem, told him to check around, see if any hackers he knew boasted about Massive Dynamic or something. It's a long shot, but worth a try."

"Peter?" Olivia asked, her tone turning serious.

"Yes?"

"Go to sleep. You have surgery in the morning. I'll pick you up at six."

Peter sighed.

"Yes, mother."

As Peter pocketed his phone, Walter entered the living room, from the kitchen.

"Peter, would you like some more ice cream?" he asked, with exaggerated politeness.

Peter rolled his eyes at his father, but decided to humor him.

"Sure, but I'll come into the kitchen, you don't have to serve me."

* * *

The second kidnapping went off like clockwork. Dev disabled the security system on Redmond's house remotely, Carl entered the scientist's home and reappeared moments later with the stunned, elderly man across his broad shoulders. He put the man gently into the back of the stolen van, got in the back, and they returned to the warehouse in twenty minutes.

Now, Dev watched with curiosity as Claire picked the man's brain.

Jason Redmond was strapped into the chair, with a halo of eight electrodes surrounding his skull. Semi-conscious, he occasionally groaned softly.

"Now, Doctor Redmond," Claire said, "...I want you to think about seahorses."

* * *

Astrid glanced up the papers she was filling out, eying her father as he approached the kitchen table and refilled her cup of coffee.

"Daddy, you're my guest, I should be serving you!" she objected.

The Reverend Stephen Farnsworth shook his head and sat down at the table across from her.

"You're busy working, and worrying about your friend, and I don't mind taking care of my youngest, if she'll let me," he said.

Astrid finished her scrambled eggs in a hurry, and gulped the last of her coffee - earning herself a glare from her father, who insisted that meals be leisurely family affairs.

"Sorry," Astrid said, "I'm just nervous. I want to be at the hospital before Peter heads into surgery. Walter is going to be a handful, and Olivia has limited patience with him."

"So go, and call me when he gets out of surgery. You've told me so much about the Bishops these past two years, I feel like I know them."

"Will do!"

Astrid stood, kissed her father, shrugged into her coat and was out the door.

* * *

"Walter, stop eating all the Good and Plenty. Don't you want to save some for Peter?" Astrid asked.

Olivia looked up from her laptop. The three of them - Walter, Astrid and herself - had been sitting in the hospital "Outpatient Surgery Waiting Room" for the last hour, while Peter had his wrist and hand operated on. With nothing else to do, Olivia was poring over the details of the Easton kidnapping case for what had to be the hundredth time, hoping to find to something she had missed.

She was having no luck. And the longer the case remained unsolved, the more likely it would remain so. It had been a week, and the trail was rapidly growing cold.

"No, Peter doesn't like candy. Never did, even when he was little. And I'm just nervous. Do you want some, Estelle?"

"No, Walter, I'm fine. And I'm _Astrid_. Peter will be alright." Astrid said.

"Intellectually, I know that. But...did you know that Peter was a sickly child? He was bedridden most of his seventh year."

Astrid looked surprised.

"No, he never mentioned it."

Walter fidgeted nervously. Olivia vividly recalled a conversation early in her association with the Bishops, and spoke up.

"I remember you once mentioned Peter's medical history. I've wondered what you meant by that."

Walter frowned and looked at her, then scratched his forearm nervously.

"I don't remember that. Was I high at the time?" he asked.

"You didn't appear to be...but I suppose it's possible," Olivia admitted.

"Hmm," Walter said.

Olivia started to say something more, but was interrupted by two things happening simultaneously - Peter's surgeon entering the waiting room and approaching them, and her phone ringing. Glancing at the display, she saw that it was Broyles, and answered immediately.

"Dunham," she said, low enough that it wouldn't intrude on what the doctor was saying.

"Peter's surgery went as well as I expected," the surgeon said, "He'll be in recovery for an hour, and then you can take him home. The hand will be immobilized for two weeks - he can't lift anything heavier than about five pounds with it. Here's a prescription for the pain..."

He held out a piece of paper for Walter, which Astrid snatched.

"...in about a week, have him call his neurologist and set up some physical therapy. He should regain full use of his hand in a few months."

"Agent Dunham?" Broyles said, "..there's been another kidnapping in New York, a former Massive Dynamic employee, circumstances very similar to the Easton case. I'm emailing you the details."

"Sir," Olivia said, "...Peter is just getting out of surgery. It's likely to be some time before we can leave for New York."

"I understand. It isn't urgent, because the victim actually contacted Nina Sharp himself. Take Peter home, and you and Agent Farnsworth meet me in the Federal Building in New York as soon as you can. I'm restricting Peter to lab duty until further notice."

Olivia glanced up from her phone. A nurse was leading Walter and Astrid into the recovery room.

"He isn't going to like that, sir. He does like to be involved."

"I don't care. He and Doctor Bishop will stay in Boston on this one. We can consult with them as needed."

"All right sir. We'll see you in New York."

Olivia hung up, put her phone back into her pocket, packed her laptop into its case, and entered the recovery room. She found Walter sitting at Peter's bedside, holding his still-drowsy son's hand, with Astrid standing nearby and beaming.

"Are you sure you don't want some Good and Plenty son?" Walter asked.

Peter chuckled, and forced his eyes open. "No, Walter. I'm fine."

Seeing her, he waved his just-operated-on hand at her. "Hi, Olivia. Will you sign my cast?" he asked giddily.

The cast was a plastic assembly that immobilized his hand and wrist, extending from just above the wrist to just below the tips of his fingers. She saw a short line of stitches that crossed his wrist and extended down to the center of his palm.

She smiled, feeling tension leaving her shoulders now that her friend was out of surgery.

"Hi, Peter. Of course I'll sign your cast. How are you feeling?"

"I'm great. Glad this is over. I'll be playing Chopsticks in no time."

"Good to hear." Olivia tapped Astrid's shoulder, "...that call was Broyles. There's been another kidnapping, in New York, similar to the Easton case. After we take the Bishops home, you and I going on a trip."

"Okay, I have to make a phone call," Astrid replied.

Peter looked at Walter and smiled.

"This is a first," he drawled.

Walter took his hand, smiled and nodded. "Me sober, you high? Wonderful, isn't it?"

* * *

Nina Sharp sighed and looked at the clock on her wall in her office. Eight o'clock. She really should go home. But she had one last task to do, one that she had been putting off for far too long.

She pressed a button on the console on her desk, locking the door to her office. She stood and approached the east wall, and extended her cybernetic arm and swiped her palm down a barely perceptible seam. An RFID sensor in the wall detected the proximity of her unique prosthetic, and unlocked the hidden door.

Nina entered the small room that was revealed – it was little more than a closet, really. Inside was a wooden desk and chair, and on the desk was a very special computer. The computer looked old fashioned - it was built as a single unit, the keyboard and monitor encased in grey plastic. Upon closer inspection, someone who knew their computers would have been surprised by the touchpad located below the keyboard, something computers of its apparent era didn't have.

At least not computers that had been manufactured in this universe.

A yellow network cable dangled off the back of the table, which had apparently been cleanly cut off at about a foot's length. Nina knew that the cable somehow crossed over into the other universe, where the other end plugged into a similar computer in William Bell's office.

Nina sat in the chair and tapped the touchpad. The machine sprang to life, revealing a sophisticated graphical operating system that would have been twenty years before its time over here.

Ignoring the GUI, Nina pressed the keyboard combination that opened a simple text terminal window. Then she started the network "talk" program and typed out a simple question in bright green on a black background.

WILLIAM? ARE YOU THERE?

She stared at the cursor until she was convinced that William Bell was not in his office. Then she typed out a simple message.

MELVIN EASTON AND JASON REDMOND HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED. THEY WERE RELEASED UNHARMED, BUT THERE ARE REPERCUSSIONS. THE FRINGE TEAM HAS GOTTEN INVOLVED. I THOUGHT YOU WOULD LIKE TO KNOW.

Nina waited a moment, then stood to leave. When she turned around, she heard the sharp beep that indicated a message was incoming. She turned and read the line of test that had appeared on the screen.

I AM AWARE. YOU HAVE MY FULL CONFIDENCE.

Nina sighed. "Always one step ahead, William. I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

Two hours after dropping the Bishops off at their house, Agents Dunham and Farnsworth were in the air, headed to New York on a plane, courtesy of Massive Dynamic. This gave Olivia pause. The new kidnap victim was a former employee of the mega-corporation. She wondered why Nina Sharp was being so cooperative in this investigation.

"Here you go!" Astrid handed her a bottle of water and sat in the seat opposite her.

"Thank you, Astrid," Olivia said.

Olivia smiled at her assistant, hesitated for a second, and then said something she should have months ago.

"I'm sorry, Astrid. I've been neglecting your training. I should be letting you get more experience in the field."

Astrid smiled. "It's alright, Olivia. Special circumstances. Besides, with my background in linguistics and crypto, I always expected to spend most of my time in a lab. I just didn't expect this type of lab."

Olivia smiled again, and gestured with the tablet computer she was holding, which was displaying the string of emails that Broyles had sent her, regarding the case.

"This is what we know: the victim is Doctor Jason Redmond, formerly a microbiologist for Massive Dynamic. Three years ago, he left M.D. and started doing contract work for various pharmaceutical companies. Interestingly, he's the one who realized he'd been kidnapped. He woke up this morning, but couldn't remember anything from the previous afternoon until that moment. Having heard about what happened to Doctor Easton, he contacted Nina Sharp, who called Broyles."

Astrid nodded.

"Interesting. Either they didn't implant memories this time, or they didn't take. It might be a big break that he had the presence of mind to realize something was wrong."

* * *

Having worked in Fringe Division for two years, Peter Bishop had grown accustomed to getting urgent calls and visitors at inconvenient hours. To the extent that getting a call at a normal time - 11 am - threw him off his game.

Recovering from surgical anesthetic probably had something to do with it.

He lay dozing on the couch in the Bishop household when his phone began to buzz. Peter groggily dug his phone out of his pocket, and stared at the screen. Akeem's smiling, gold-toothed visage and number greeted him. It took him a moment to remember how to answer, and when he did, he listened for a moment, before interrupting.

"Akeem, wait a minute. I'm going to bring someone in on this call."

* * *

Astrid's phone rang, while they were interviewing Redmond. She pulled it from her pocket while apologizing, looked at the screen and raised an eyebrow.

"It's Peter!" she said, and answered.

"Hi Astrid. My buddy Akeem is on the call, and he has a lot of technical information for you that I can't understand right now. So I'm going to hang up and go back to my nap."

Astrid listened briefly, eyes wide with surprise, then caught Olivia's sleeve.

"I need a computer. Peter's friend says he has a hacker that's boasting about a job involving Massive Dynamic online right now. If we trace his IP address, we'll have a good idea of his location!"

* * *

"Hi. Do you mind if I sit here?"

Devin Randall looked up from his laptop. He had chosen the coffee shop because it had free wi-fi, and had sat at the table in the far back corner because of it's privacy. He frowned, about to refuse permission, but when he saw the inquirer - a petite black woman in professional dress - he changed his mind.

"No, go ahead. I'm afraid I won't be good company, kind of busy."

Dev returned to typing furiously on his laptop. He was in a conversation in a private internet chat room, giving details about how to access Massive Dynamics internal network to some hackers he knew. He had gotten the details from Claire, of course.

"I'm Astrid. Whats your name?" the young woman asked, as she pulled her own laptop out of her case and set it up.

"Devin. Call me Dev."

Dev noticed the woman booted her laptop from a USB stick. That was curious, it implied that she wouldn't just be typing a letter into Word or browsing the internet. He returned to his conversation in the chat room, and was surprised to find himself locked out, and even more surprised at the last words in the chat room.

_**PirateSmile: /dev/random, I've already warned you never to post illegal stuff in here. You're done. Say hello to Astrid for me.**_

Dev's jaw dropped in shock. He looked at the young woman across the table from him. She had put her badge and ID on the table and was smiling at him.

"FBI. You're under arrest, and PirateSmile says hi."

* * *

Two hours later, Olivia and Astrid were bouncing in the back of an NYPD SWAT van as they drove downtown to raid the warehouse that Devin Randall had indicated was the base of operations for their quarry.

Randall had given up the location of his two compatriots after ten minutes of Broyles' withering, silent stare. Unfortunately, being a hireling, he didn't have much detail as to the actual objective of the kidnappings.

Hopefully, they would learn that after capturing the rest of the crew.

The SWAT Team commander crouched beside Olivia and showed her a folded blueprint of the warehouse they would soon be assaulting.

"There are only two ways in - the front door and the loading dock, and one fire exit out," he said, "...We'll take most of the team in through the front and leave two covering the side. You two can follow right behind the entry team."

Olivia nodded.

"Sounds good. You're in charge until the place is secure."

Shortly they arrived at their destination, the two black vans parking a block away from the warehouse and disgorging their cargo of troopers. Two went to guard the side door as planned, while the rest took up positions around the front door and loading dock. At a signal from the commander, they charged into the building, with Olivia and Astrid following close behind.

They discovered Carl Gessler not far from the front door, working on disassembling a van with a cutting torch - which neatly answered the question of why the stolen van had never been recovered.

At their yelled commands, Gessler smirked insolently, shut off the torch and raised his hands into the air.

Olivia Dunham had seen the look on Gessler's face before, and reviewed his file from the Army - this man enjoyed a physical altercation, and given his size, training and obvious confidence, was probably very good at it.

She had just started to yell a warning when a SWAT trooper made the mistake of stepping within striking distance of Gessler. The trooper made to spin the mercenary around, in preparation for cuffing him, but Gessler lithely pivoted away from the troopers extended arm and slammed the policeman against the side of the van, then kicked backward, knocking the wind out of another trooper. Then, fast as a panther, he sidestepped and smashed his elbow into the face of the next policeman that charged him.

The man was a martial arts expert. This was going to get out of hand, quickly.

A few moments of total pandemonium followed. Unable to use their firearms in such tight quarters, for fear of hitting one another, the SWAT team was forced to grapple with Gessler - and he was much, much better at it than any one of them. When they tried to grab him, he dodged and responded with a flurry of crushing blows, staying on his feet and deftly moving so they couldn't corner him.

Olivia glanced past the scuffle dominating the room - and saw a flash of movement in the back of the warehouse. Gessler was deliberately causing a distraction to allow someone else the time to escape.

"Halt! FBI!" Olivia called, raising her weapon.

She strode past the pile of fighting bodies - the SWAT team had finally managed to get Gessler on the ground - with Astrid following close behind.

"Halt! I will shoot!" Olivia warned the silhouette creeping behind a partially deconstructed van. It was a woman, wearing a dark leather jacket and jeans.

The shadow took off toward the back of the warehouse. Olivia swore under her breath, aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. Her Glock boomed, the woman stumbled but kept running. Olivia and Astrid pushed forward carefully.

Behind a cage, they found an array of computers surrounding a surgical chair - likely the device for combing the kidnapped scientists minds. Not having time to examine it, they pushed on.

They found a splatter of fresh blood sprayed against a stack of wooden packing crates, but when they reached the far end of the warehouse they found no sign of the woman.

"Did she double back?" Astrid whispered.

Olivia shook her head. "We would have heard."

It was true - footsteps echoed loudly from the concrete in the warehouse. They worked their way back to the blood splattered against the crates, found a trail of drying blood droplets on the floor and followed it. The track ended in a small room at the far wall of the building, from where they had entered.

The air stirred around them, bring with it a chill. But there was nowhere for a draft to originate, they were in a windowless room, that had once been used for an office.

"What the hell?" Olivia asked out loud, "...I feel a breeze. But there's no break in the wall, no door or window nearby."

She knelt to examine the end of the trail, felt cool air on her face, heard the bustle of city streets nearby.

"I feel it too," Astrid said.

The junior agent put a hand out to feel along the wall - and her hand disappeared into the wall itself. She yelped and jerked her hand back, as if she'd touched a flame.

"There's no wall here!" she exclaimed.

The two of them stared at each other for a moment.

Olivia picked up a discarded two-by-four that was lying nearby, shook the dust off it, and thrust one end into the wall. It passed through, but with some difficulty.

"There's some resistance," she reported, "...It's like the wall is only partially here. Whoever she was, she escaped by running through here. Give the Bishops a call, they're going to want to take a look at this."

Olivia dropped the two-by-four, drew her weapon and stepped through the wall into the alleyway beyond, experiencing a slightly unpleasant tingling sensation as she did so. She found a few more drops of fresh blood, but the trail promptly disappeared - indicating the fugitive had a getaway vehicle in the alleyway.

"The case just got weird," she heard from behind, and turned to see Astrid cautiously poking her head through the wall.

"The case got weird," Olivia agreed.

* * *

Several blocks away, Claire Mathieu pulled her aging station wagon behind another abandoned warehouse and reached under the bench seat for the medical kit she'd left there weeks ago.

Always have an escape route. That had been her mantra for as long as she could remember, and once again it had saved her.

She removed her jacket, and cut away the blood soaked sleeve of her shirt, exposing the wound - the bullet had passed straight through the flesh of her left arm, just below the shoulder. Not a deadly injury, but it bled like hell.

Whoever that FBI agent was, she was one hell of a shot. Fifty feet, at a moving target in a darkened warehouse. Carl might not have made that shot.

Claire soaked a long cotton swab in alcohol, then gritted her teeth and slowly pushed it through the wound to make sure there was no foreign matter to fester inside. Then she withdrew the bloody swab, packed the entry and exit holes with gauze and bandaged it tightly.

After that, she closed her eyes and lay down on the seat until the world stopped spinning.

"Getting old," she muttered.

When she finally stopped feeling nauseous, she reached under the seat again and pulled out a prepaid cell phone - and then struggled to recall the number she'd memorized weeks before.

"What is wrong with me today?" she muttered to herself.

She cursed to herself in French, German and Swahili, until she finally remembered, and tapped the digits into the phone.

* * *

Doctor Bruce Sumner was just preparing to go home when the phone he never wanted to get a call on started buzzing. He stood up and closed the door to his office before getting the cell phone out of his desk drawer.

"What is it?" he asked, not needing to ask who was calling.

"We're blown," Claire said, "...the hacker got talkative. They've got Carl in custody, and they have the interrogation device."

"Damn it," Sumner hissed, "...you're supposed to be the best."

"I am the best," Claire retorted.

"Okay. Find someplace to lie low, and don't call me again. I'll handle Doctor Bishop's interrogation myself. I was hoping not to have to get my hands dirty with this, but thanks to you, I do."

Sumner hung up before Claire could gave him a scathing reply.

The thing was, Claire realized, she had screwed up, by trusting an outsider. And ever loyal Carl had paid the price in her stead, giving her time to escape.

"Foolish boy," she muttered.

She would find a way to get him back. As she had told Carl ten years ago, all you ever really had was family and loyalty.

Claire sighed, started the engine and drove off into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

That evening, Olivia once again poked a two-by-four through the space that appeared to be a wall but wasn't, this time for the benefit of an audience.

"Oh, that is wonderful!" Walter Bishop exclaimed, his voice tinny from the small speakers of Astrid's cell phone. The junior agent was currently holding it aloft as she sent video of the Not-wall they had discovered at the warehouse as Walter and Peter watched the proceedings on the big screen back at the lab in Boston.

With the discovery of the Not-wall, the investigation had taken a turn. It was no longer a straightforward kidnapping case. Olivia had shooed the SWAT team out, and called Broyles, who had sent a team of Homeland Security evidence techs who were cleared for classified work.

"Walter, could this be another application of your matter phasing device?" Olivia asked, as she withdrew the board from the wall.

"Possibly. But the wall should phase back to its normal state, without an active power source. I'm going to need you to send that whole section of wall to the lab."

"Okay...I'm sure we can find someone who knows how to do that. We'll also send you a blood sample from the fugitive," Olivia said.

"Hey, did either of you actually step through..." Peter started to say, but then stopped when he noticed Olivia's reaction on the screen, "oh, of course you did. Don't happen to have a Geiger counter handy, do you?"

"You think we were exposed to radiation?" Astrid asked, eyes wide.

"Possibly. Probably? Maybe. Those guys last year certainly were. One exposure shouldn't harm you though, just don't go through again."

"Well, on to the Comfy Chair." Olivia said, leading Astrid and her smartphone through the warehouse to the device in question, "...any thoughts?"

Walter and Peter peered at the screen, examining the machine closely.

"We'll, it's definitely what left the marks on the scientists' heads," Walter said.

"See the eight pointy things on the halo thing," Peter explained, "...those are basically electron guns, like in some types of radiation therapy."

"We're going to need to examine that firsthand also," Walter said.

"You'll have to box it all up and send it to us," Peter agreed.

"Really?" Astrid complained, frowning.

"Well, Broyles has me stuck in the lab, and he doesn't want Walter out of my sight either."

"All right, it doesn't look too complicated. If I get right on it, I think I can have it apart in an hour. You should get it, the blood sample and the not-wall by tomorrow morning, afternoon at the latest."

Olivia stared through the one way glass at Carl Gessler, who was seated at a table inside an interrogation cell, hands and feet shackled. Left alone to his thoughts for hours, he still gave off an air of amused confidence. The man was unflappable to the point that she had started to wonder about his sanity.

She finished memorizing his file and closed the folder. Then she opened another, much thinner folder - all they had on the woman who had eluded capture, which amounted to a few grainy security camera photos, and what little Randall had told them about his employer; basically her first name, Claire, and some personal observations about her attractiveness and intelligence.

Olivia picked up an 8x10 glossy and held it up to the glass, comparing Gessler's features with Claire's. They had to be related. Similar features, same hair and eyes. Claire wasn't a wiry slab of muscle like Carl was, but she obviously kept herself fit. Was she Gessler's little sister?

But that didn't really jibe with her being in charge of the crew, did it? She couldn't picture an experienced soldier being dominated by his little sister.

The door opened behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Phillip Broyles joined her at the glass.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go in with you?" Broyles asked, "...he put two cops in the hospital, and according to you, he was restraining himself."

Olivia smiled at his concern. Things had changed so much in the two years they'd worked together.

"I'll be fine, sir. He's shackled, I'll leave my gun outside. If he were really inclined toward murder...he already had the opportunity. And you need to get back to Boston."

Broyles sighed.

"Call me if you learn anything. And be careful, Dunham."

Broyles turned to go, was stopped by Olivia clearing her throat.

"Uh, sir. I was wondering if you could look in on the Bishops for me. Walter is still adjusting to his change in medication, and Peter just got out of the hospital..."

Broyles smiled and nodded.

"Of course I will."

Olivia entered the interrogation room and dropped a thick manila folder on the table in front of Gessler, then took her time pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him, careful to stay out of his reach.

"I'm FBI Agent Olivia Dunham, I'll be handling your interrogation."

Gessler nodded, then, "You were at the warehouse. I remember you."

Olivia nodded.

"Do you know how many charges the prosecutor is thinking of piling on you?"

Gessler smiled.

"Let's see," he rumbled, "...two counts of kidnapping, two counts grand theft auto, destruction of evidence, resisting arrest, maybe assaulting four police officers, if he's into piling on. This is the part where you offer me a deal if I roll over."

Olivia raised an eyebrow at his continued nonchalance, wondering if it was all an act, or if he really was that uncaring. The personality he was displaying didn't really fit the disciplined, expert soldier described in his file.

"You seem very...unconcerned about going to prison."

Gessler shrugged his broad, muscular shoulders, making his shackles clank.

"I'm a soldier, taking one for the team. It's not that bad. Get a place to sleep and three squares a day. I'm big enough that no one will mess with me. At most, I'll have to crack a few skulls the first week, then they'll leave me alone, and I like brawling."

Olivia stared at him, not believing his lack of concern for his own fate. Looking into his eyes though, she saw that he really was that nonchalant about it, and it astonished her.

"But you're not a soldier, are you? You deserted the Army in '03. You're a mercenary."

Olivia saw it - a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, the first time the devil-may-care front was breached. He didn't consider himself a mercenary. But what was he?

Gessler shook his head. "I'm still a soldier, just a different war."

Curious. Making a mental note to come back to that, Olivia opened her folder, produced a glossy black and white photo of the woman that had escaped the warehouse and put it where Gessler could see it, watching his face.

"Who is Claire? You stayed behind at the warehouse, so she could escape."

Gessler shook his head, feigning unconcern. "Just my boss."

But Olivia was starting to be able to read his face, to pick up on involuntary tells that were there despite the mask he wore.

"Just your boss? You covered her escape, without even being asked, apparently. That's a lot of loyalty from a mercenary."

Again, a flicker of anger across his features, and this time his muscles tensed, straining against the shackles. He really didn't like being taken for a soldier of fortune.

Olivia leaned forward.

"You know, I winged her back at the warehouse. You must have heard the shot."

A flash of anger on the mercenary's eyes. Then he took several deep breaths and relaxed.

"She looks a lot like you. Is she your sister? Why don't we have any records on her?"

Gessler chuckled, and shook his head.

"You have it all wrong. Maybe you just haven't looked hard enough," he said with a smirk.

Olivia drummed her fingers on the picture of Claire, gathering her thoughts.

"Why would you take orders from a younger woman?" she asked, almost thinking out loud. "...You should be in charge of this operation...unless...unless you're both working for somebody else."

She saw him hide a flash of surprise at the connection she had made. They were working for somebody - yet not for hire, for ideology perhaps.

Then the disparate pieces she had started fitting together. Somebody was kidnapping Massive Dynamic scientists, someone with the technical knowhow to easily shut down security systems. This group could implant false memories into the scientists' minds, and had a matter phasing device for their escape route.

"You're ZFT," Olivia said, "I'd thought we'd taken care of them, along with David Robert Jones."

A flash of panic crossed Gesslers' face, which he quickly concealed with a stony facade. She was right.

"I want to talk to my lawyer," he said.

* * *

Peter groaned and opened his eyes, raised his hand to rub sleep out of his eyes, and thought better of it when he felt the cool plastic of the cast on his hand.

He didn't know why he had awoke so early, but knew it had to do with whatever - not _crazy_, he was trying to stop using that word, in reference to his father - thing Walter was doing. Peter had developed a sort of sixth sense about what Walter was doing at any given moment, allowing them both to relax at home.

Peter got up, threw on a robe, and walked downstairs, shoulders hunching whenever he walked through a draft. He found Walter awake, in the living room, sitting quietly on the couch, fully dressed in a new shirt and corduroys.

"Walter? Are you all right?" Peter asked.

His father seemed perfectly fine, except for the fact that he was awake at four in the morning. Which really wasn't that unusual, it was just that nothing good ever happened when he was awake at this hour.

Walter looked up and smiled, doing as good an impression of an angel as Peter had ever seen.

"Yes, I'm fine! I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Walter asked.

"No, I had to get to up to pee, and I saw the light on," Peter lied.

Walter scooted over on the couch and patted the cushion beside him. Accepting the invitation, Peter sat down beside him, and joined him in staring into space. Walter sat quietly, with a childhood smile on his lips.

It was creeping Peter out a little.

"I palmed my Haloperidol today," Walter finally said. "In conjunction with abstaining from illicit drugs, that means this is the first time I've been drug free for eighteen years."

Concerned, Peter looked him up and down. When he saw Walter wasn't showing any of the external symptoms of acute withdrawal, he felt relieved. Finally, he asked.

"What's it like?"

Walter smiled again.

"Very enjoyable. Experiencing reality without a filter...it's rather primal, like standing naked in an ice storm."

"Well, at least you remember our last ski trip...ever."

Walter nodded, ignored Peter's affectionate sarcasm and continued.

"I never took drugs just to get high, you know. I was always experimenting. Looking for new ways of perceiving the world. Alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, LSD, DMT, licking toads...all looking for that extra spark of inspiration. Belly and I did our best work while high on something."

"Of course, when I was committed, I was put on all sorts of drugs that had the opposite effect. They had decided that I was a little too inspired, I suppose. I'd let reality slip away. The contrast...was off putting."

Walter nudged Peter with an elbow.

"I think I'd like to try unfiltered reality for a while," he said with a wink, "...it's a refreshing change of pace.

Peter smiled.

"Well, I'll talk to Sumner about it, after your appointment tomorrow. I can't guarantee it, but maybe we can at least reduce some of your meds."

Later, that morning, Peter juggled his phone and his styrofoam cup of coffee as he talked to Olivia, who was still in New York.

"You're sure that dude is ZFT?" he asked, as he took a sip of caffeinated joy and switched to his phone.

"Well, he quoted the bible, so to speak," Olivia answered.

"Maybe he browses at Markham's," Peter suggested, getting a snort from the other end of the conversation.

"Just be careful. Gessler lawyered up, after that. We're proceeding on the assumption that he is ZFT, and we're going to transfer him to a more secure facility later today. The woman is still at large...if you happen to run into her, call Broyles immediately, he's back in Boston."

"All right. Walter and I are going to get started on the load of stuff you sent us. I'll call you when we know something useful. Talk to you later."

"Later," Olivia said a smile.

Peter hung up, and turned his attention back to his father, and the lab.

The shipment of evidence from New York had arrived that morning, about nine o'clock. Walter and Peter had already been in the lab since six, sharing a breakfast and then going about their typical chores.

The two of them had hauled the multitude of boxes into the lab and set about assembling the chair. That task was mostly complete by ten.

"Are you absolutely sure you put it together, correctly?" Walter asked, as he gnawed on a piece of mint flavored taffy.

Peter looked up from the nearby lab bench, where he was assembling the computers that had been shipped along with the ominous looking chair. This was an awkward process, with his good hand in a cast.

"Yes, Walter. Astrid even sent me dozens of pictures of how she took it apart. All I had to do was follow them in reverse order."

Walter looked impressed, for once.

"That's clever. I'll have to remember that, son."

Walter finished his taffy and licked his fingers.

"First time I've had taffy without cannabis in years...well then, I suppose we need a volunteer."

The scientist made to sit in the chair, but was stopped by Peter's hand on his arm.

"No way, Walter."

"How else are supposed to figure out how it works? We can't use a cantaloupe. They never answer questions."

Peter chuckled at the image of Walter interrogating a melon.

"We'll figure something out. Haven't you already surmised what it's doing, anyway?"

Peter gestured toward a nearby blackboard, covered in Walter's notes from the previous afternoon.

"Yes, but it's all theory, which needs to tested!"

Peter shrugged.

"I understand what you mean...we'll just have to figure something out, without using a human subject."

Walter sighed.

"Science was more fun when I worked with Belly. We hooked each other up to contraptions all the time."

Peter raised an eyebrow, then put his hand on Walter's shoulder and gestured toward another bench.

"Hey, why don't you check out the blood sample while I finish this? And this afternoon, we should have the magic wall here to play with."

"Oh, all right," Walter grumbled.

Walter moved to another bench, and opened a padded shipping envelope that had arrived with the chair that morning. From it he took a glass sample capsule containing the blood from the fleeing suspect at the warehouse in New York.

Using a cotton swab, he placed a small sample on a slide, which he put into a nearby microscope for visual inspection. To begin the process of DNA matching he added a drop of reagent to the tube, which he placed into a centrifuge, closed and activated. Then he returned to the microscope, sat down and peered through the eyepiece.

After a moment of studying the blood sample, Walter removed his face from the eyepiece, rubbed his eyes, and then looked again.

Peter approached, having finished assembling the computers, and shut off the whirring centrifuge.

"Anything interesting?"

Walter nodded, eyes still gazing through the microscope.

"Quite. Apparently our suspect lived through the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918. I'd recognize these antibodies anywhere."

Peter blinked for a moment, considering Walter's words. Then he sighed in resignation.

"I was about to ask if you were sure, but of course you are. So...if she was exposed to the Spanish flu that would make her...a minimum of 91 years old."

Walter nodded.

"Yes, she seems remarkably youthful in the pictures we have. There are a few other possibilities. It's remotely possible she was accidentally exposed in a lab somewhere. Or maybe she was...deliberately infected."

Peter furrowed his brow.

"Why would somebody deliberately infect her with the Spanish Flu?" He asked.

Walter shrugged.

"I don't know. Bioweapons research? I'm just speculating really. I actually hope she's a nonagenarian, and that it's not a more mundane explanation. We never get enough weirdness around here."

Peter chuckled. Walter off of drugs was actually kind of fun to be around.

"We need to look at her DNA," Walter said, growing serious, "...that should solve at least part of the mystery."

* * *

She woke with a gasp to predawn darkness, dreaming of grey uniforms and swastikas, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar apartment.

Driven by instincts deeper than memory, her hands found a small 9mm automatic taped to the underside of the nightstand beside her head.

She threw the covers back and stood up - she wore sweatpants and a white tee shirt she couldn't remember putting on. She spent the next several minutes with pistol extended in front of her, heart pounding, inspecting the various rooms of the apartment, all of which were empty.

The she sighed, as recollection finally came over her.

"Claire," she breathed, "...my name is Claire Mathieu."

The spells - short episodes of acute memory loss - had started two years earlier. Or at least that was when she had noticed them. As time went by, they were becoming more frequent and more severe.

She hadn't told Carl about them. She really didn't know how to. Claire hadn't visibly aged in all the time he'd known her, and she wasn't sure how he'd react to the knowledge that she was mortal.

Claire sighed, returned to the bedroom of the ZFT safe house she had spent the night in. She sat on the bed, put the pistol down and inspected the wound in her left shoulder. Removing the dressing, she saw exactly what she expected to see - the injury had completely healed in the night.

That was something she hadn't lost, at least.

Claire found her rucksack under the bed, then put on jeans, shoes and a light jacket. Checking her watch, she found it was time to go - she was almost late for her breakfast appointment. She slipped the pistol into the back of her waistband, tucked her hair up under a baseball cap, and departed the safe house.

Nina Sharp sat in a window booth in a stereotypical "greasy spoon" restaurant near the river, aware that she looked out of place here. Normally she would have never graced this lowly establishment with her presence, but then she hadn't chosen this venue for her meeting.

Nina looked up from her tea when a shadow fell over her.

"Claire," Nina Sharp said to the young blonde woman sitting across from her, "you're looking extremely well preserved, as usual."

In truth, Claire was looking rather stressed. She had dark circles under eyes, and wore a hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans that had seen better days. Her hair was unwashed and tangled.

But then, Nina thought, she looked fantastic for a nonagenarian. Claire could pass for a twenty five year old who'd had a hard night on the town.

"I need to get a message to Bell," Claire stated.

"I think I know what you want..." Nina began.

"I want Carl released, I know Bell has puppets in the government," Claire interrupted.

"...but I think you overestimate William's influence," Nina finished her sentence.

Claire nodded at the waitress who had approached. "Black coffee."

When the waitress had brought a steaming cup and placed it before her, Claire produced an object from her pocket and placed it on the table between them. It was a clear plastic vial, about two inches long and a half inch wide, filled with bright red blood, her own.

"This is the last vial he gets, until Carl is released. No more Fountain of Youth."

Nina stared at Claire, then took a sip of her tea before responding.

"I don't want to see my son grow old in prison," Claire said, "I'll do whatever I have to do."

Nina looked at the younger looking but older woman sympathetically.

"As I was saying, you overestimate William's influence on events. He has contacts in the government, but he hardly has puppets, as you put it. He can't just snap his fingers and make something happen. But...I would be willing to try to broker something. I have my own contacts...and some of them might be interested in what you know about...certain groups."

Claire stared across the table, as if weighing Nina's trustworthiness. Then she nodded and stood, preparing to leave.

"Do it. I'll contact you in three days."

* * *

The young man in the cheap suit and glasses walked up to the front desk of the Federal Building and produced his identification. No one took any particular notice of him - men in suits and glasses walked the halls all the time. What's more, the man in this particular suit was relatively familiar.

"Daniel Case, public defender," he said to the guard behind the desk, "...here to see my client, Devin Randall."

After verifying his papers and appointment, a guard escorted him to the third floor interrogation rooms. Case rode the elevator up with another guard and marched down the hall - he'd been in that particular building, representing the accused several times before.

The guard unlocked the door. Case made a gesture, waving his finger in the air.

"I need the cameras and microphones turned off," he said curtly, "...so I can confer with my client in private."

The guard looked at him. "The mikes are off."

"Uh uh. I need the cameras off, too. I know how good the new ones are."

The guard grumbled, but produced his walkie talkie and called the surveillance control room. After a few minutes he nodded to Case.

"They're off. Satisfied?" he asked.

Case nodded.

"Thank you. I'll knock when I want out."

Case entered the small room and found Devin Randall sitting, head in his hands, at small table. The guard closed and locked the door behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Randall. My name is Dan Case, I'll be your public defender. Before we begin, is there anything I can get you?"

Devin shook his head. "No, I'm fine. So how much trouble am I looking at?"

Case sat down across from him and produced a legal pad from his briefcase, an expensive fountain pen from his jacket pocket, then peered at Devin over the rims of his glasses.

"Well, that depends. Mainly on what you can offer."

Devin chuckled nervously and scratched his goatee.

"Well, you see that's it. I'm just a hacker for hire. I never met Claire or Carl before last week, and they never gave me any details about why they were doing what they were doing, or what they were looking for."

Case stared at him again, long enough to make Devin fidget nervously.

"Well, Mr. Randall," he finally said, "that's fortunate, because it means your troubles are over."

And then Case thrust his pen into Randall's eye socket, before the young man had time to even comprehend his words, killing him almost instantly. With a sickening noise, he withdrew the pen, causing a spray of blood. He then produced a handkerchief and wiped it clean, then repositioned Randall's body into as natural a posture as possible.

The deception would only have to last a few seconds.

When he was satisfied, Case stood up and rapped loudly on the door. He heard the guard outside fumbled with the keys, then the door opened.

Moving with inhuman speed and grace, Case seized the guard's shirt with one hand and his holstered pistol with the other, then jerked him inside the small interrogation room. As designed, the door snicked shut behind him.

The guard barely had time to gasp before his pistol was torn from its holster. Case raised the weapon high, holding it by the barrel and brought it down on the guard's nose, shattering it. He fell to the floor stunned.

Case crouched beside him, picked up the ring of keys that had been dropped to the floor. Then he placed the muzzle of the pistol against the guard's temple, who whimpered in fear.

"Tell me what I need to know," he said, "...And I'll make your death...well, less painful than it already is."

* * *

Olivia Dunham sat at a table in the observation room, with all of the paperwork involved in the case in neat piles before her. She moved the different papers around, all of the pieces of the puzzle she was trying to solve. Occasionally, she glanced up to look at Gessler through the one way glass.

Behind her, the door to the observation room unlocked, and Astrid entered, talking on her cellphone.

"Daddy," Astrid said, "...I really think you should go to the doctor if you feel that bad. After all, I'm not there to nurse you back to health."

She stopped and listened, nodded at Olivia's amused smile.

"Now promise me you'll make an appointment...promise me! Ok. Love you. I'll be back in Boston soon, I promise."

"Your dad all right?" Olivia asked when her assistant had hung up the phone.

"Eh. I think he has the flu, and he's too stubborn to go see a doctor. I think I might call Peter and ask him to check in on him tomorrow. What have we got?"

Olivia shook her head, and gestured at the piles on the table.

"A lot of unanswered questions. We have two people in custody, one of whom at least I suspect is working for ZFT. We have a mystery woman in the person of Claire, who apparently doesn't officially exist..."

Astrid's eyes were drawn to something she saw through the one way glass.

"Olivia? What's that guard doing?"

Olivia looked out into the interrogation room. A guard had entered, carrying a metal tray, which he set in front of the shackled Gessler. The two exchanged words.

"Serving Gessler lunch, apparently." Olivia said.

Beyond the glass, Gessler and the guard exchanged more words.

"It's only ten o'clock," Astrid said.

Through the glass, they saw the guard produce an ornate fountain pen and lunge for Gessler, who dodged as much he could with his hands and feet shackled, taking the stab in the flesh of his left shoulder.

Once again showing impressive agility for his, Gessler rolled out of the chair he was sitting in, kicking the table at the guard in the process.

Olivia and Astrid ran for the door, drawing their handguns. Hopefully they would reach the interrogation room in time.

* * *

Carl Gessler was fighting for his life, and for the first time, he was going to lose.

Just thirty seconds into the fight with his assassin, and he already had multiple punctures to his arms and chest. With his arms and legs chained, all he could really do was maneuver to take the stabs in less vital parts of his body, while the assassin maneuvered easily, thrusting his literary weapon here and there.

Gessler didn't wonder why his assailant didn't just use his gun. He'd met this type of person before. A predator who enjoyed toying with his prey.

Carl sidestepped the next thrust completely, thanked his martial arts teachers prematurely - and slipped in his own blood, toppled to the floor, face down. Reflexively, he tried to kick backwards at his attacker, but his ankle chains prevented the only defensive maneuver he had left.

He gritted his teeth, raised his hands to protect his neck and waited to be stabbed in the back. It would be over soon.

Behind him, the door slammed open, and the two female FBI agents ran inside, guns out, taking up clear positions in different corners of the room.

"Stop! We'll shoot!" the blonde, Dunham, ordered sternly.

The assassin glanced at them over his shoulder, then lunged for Gessler. Each of the agents fired twice, two perfect "double taps", and four bullets hit the assassin in the back - adding sprays of quicksilver gore to the splashes of crimson that were already covering the walls.

The assassin dove for Gessler and plunged the pen into his back. Carl gasped as he felt it sink deep and hit something rather important.

"Shapeshifter," Astrid gasped, and joined Olivia in emptying her pistol into Gessler's attacker.

At approximately the tenth gunshot, the assassin finally pitched forward across Gessler's back and was still, dead or nearly so. Astrid and Olivia then pulled the body off Gessler and knelt to comfort to the wounded soldier.

"We've got you," Olivia said in a reassuring tone, "Help is already on the way, you'll be fine."

"Right," Gessler wheezed, his lungs filling with his own blood, "...I think this is it. Tell Claire I did my best."

With that, the huge man lost consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

An ambulance screamed through the crowded streets of downtown Manhattan.

Olivia was in the back of the ambulance, with a paramedic and the unconscious Carl Gessler. She had insisted on accompanying the mercenary to the hospital, leaving Astrid behind at the Federal Building to investigate what exactly had gone wrong there.

"How is he?" she asked.

The paramedic glanced up at the monitor before answering.

"He's lost a lot of blood, and has a punctured lung. A lot of defensive wounds. Serious, but he should pull through."

Her phone buzzed before she could ask another question. The paramedic kindly handed her a towel without a word, and she thanked him with a smile and wiped crimson and silver gore from her hands before answering. It was Astrid.

"Olivia? The shapeshifter got into the building by impersonating a public defender named Daniel Case. He killed Devin Randall and a guard, too."

Olivia felt the ambulance lurch and swerve around her. The sirens suddenly halted their wail.

"That explains a lot. Okay, I want you to call the Bishops and let them know what is going on. Then I want you to get all the information you can on Case, particularly where he lives and then meet me at the hospital. I'm going to talk to Broyles, then we're going to go do some sleuthing."

"Okay, see you in a few minutes!" Astrid said and hung up.

Olivia kept out of the way of the group of paramedics, nurses and doctors that took Gessler out of the ambulance and wheeled him into the emergency department. They spent a few minutes stabilizing him as she conferred with the lead doctor, then they moved him into the back to prepare him for surgery to repair his damaged lung.

Her phone buzzed again. As she had anticipated, it was Broyles.

"Dunham? How is Gessler?" he barked.

"They're taking him into surgery now, sir. It's going to be at least an hour, probably more like two."

"All right; in view of the Shapeshifter attack, I'm bumping this case up in priority. Everybody at the Federal Building in New York will need a blood test - and I'm calling in some favors and sending a special team to guard Gessler. They'll be there within the hour."

"Who are you sending, sir?" Olivia asked.

She waved as Astrid entered the emergency department and looked around.

"Some people I used to work with at the Department of Defense. You'll know them when you see them, and they'll know you. Is there anything else?"

"Yes…the Shapeshifter accessed the building by impersonating a public defender, a Daniel Case. Agent Farnsworth and I are going to visit his residence now."

"All right. Stay in touch, and be careful, Dunham."

* * *

Nina sat in front of the computer hidden in her office and typed a message for William Bell.

WILLIAM, THE SITUATION OVER HERE HAS ESCALATED. CARL GESSLER HAS BEEN TAKEN INTO CUSTODY. CLAIRE CONTACTED ME. SHE WANTS HIM RELEASED, IN EXCHANGE FOR CONTINUING TO SEND YOU THE VIALS. I HAVE TO MEET HER IN TWO DAYS.

When she was done, she waited. She was used to waiting for replies at this terminal Theoretically, the message she had sent should appear instantly on the other terminal. Yet she always had to wait. Was there some sort of interdimensional time lag involved?

The question intrigued the dormant scientist within her, and she made a mental note to ask Brandon tomorrow.

The computer beeped, signaling an incoming message.

WELL, THAT COMPLICATES THINGS.

WHILE THE INFORMATION THEY WERE SEEKING WAS IMPORTANT, THE VIALS ARE THE PRIORITY HERE. I TRUST YOU WILL DO WHATEVER IS NECESSARY TO ENSURE AN UNBROKEN CHAIN OF SUPPLY.

Nina stared at the screen in shock. That had not been the answer she had expected. She must have missed something important. Her fingers found the keyboard and she typed:

WILLIAM, HOW IS YOUR HEALTH?

She waited, but no answer appeared on the screen.

* * *

Claire glanced at her watch, and was startled to realize she had spent the entire day, from dawn to dusk, perusing the documents she had been given to prepare for this job.

She stood up and stretched, then quickly did a personal exercise routine, a mix of yoga and martial arts that she'd been working on for over six decades. Carl had already been very good at hand to hand combat when they had reunited, being in top condition, but her tutelage had turned turned him into a master, even better than his mother.

Claire smiled, swept one arm in a circle, dropped to the floor, one leg extended - and forgot the next move. She frowned, worked through the problem, growing angry - which threw off her concentration. Finally, she gave up with a frustrated sigh.

She had a meeting in two days with Nina Sharp about getting Carl out of custody. She doubted anything would come of it, so she needed a backup plan. She sat down again, shuffled through the documents until she found the black and white glossy pictures of the Bishops. She laid them out on the center of the table, and mentally compared them to the visage of another man, in her mind's eye.

"Both of you look so much like Robert," she said to the empty room, and the words thrust a dagger of residual guilt into her heart.

Reverie over, she grabbed a pen and legal pad and began to list what she would need from her secret cache. She had a long day planned for tomorrow.

* * *

Daniel Case, like many public defenders, had been a young lawyer recently out of law school and newly admitted to the bar. Unmarried, he occupied a small apartment just across the bridge in Brooklyn.

Displaying her usual efficiency, Astrid had called ahead, and the landlord was waiting for them with the key when they arrived. Olivia deflected his questions, only conceding that Case had died under suspicious circumstances and they needed access to his apartment to investigate.

Olivia unlocked and opened the door, revealing an unremarkable foyer and small kitchen to the right. The two agents advanced into the apartment, guns raised, and made sure the place was unoccupied before holstering their guns and examining the premises.

"Why do Shapeshifters always collect strange things?" Astrid asked, upon looking around the living room.

It was true…shapeshifters had a tendency to have odd collections. Not stamps or coins, but multicolored old telephones, vintage vacuum tube radios, things like that.

The living room had Dolly Parton bobble heads, on multiple shelves lining all four walls. At least a hundred of them.

"I have no idea," Olivia replied, as she started to go through the drawers of Case's writing desk. Astrid moved into Case's bedroom and began going through his closet.

After twenty minutes of searching Case's desk and finding nothing that piqued her interest, Olivia was about to give up when she heard Astrid call for her. Olivia walked into the bedroom and found Astrid sorting through the contents of a small wooden box, on the floor.

"I found it behind the heat register," Astrid said.

Olivia crouched and fingered through the contents of the box. It contained a watch, wallet, a wedding ring and a set of keys. Olivia picked up and opened the wallet. Inside was a set of pictures of a man in his early forties, with whom she assumed was his wife and kids.

Olivia dug out a driver's license. "Thomas Pickler."

Astrid hugged her knees to her chest. "Could that be his earlier victim?"

"Maybe," Olivia sighed.

She really hoped she wouldn't have to tell Pickler's family he was dead.

"Why would he keep it?", Astrid asked, "…did he want us to find it?"

Olivia shrugged.

"Maybe he wanted Pickler's family to have some closure, eventually."

Olivia stared at Pickler's picture for another moment, before placing the items back in the box and standing up with it held under her arm.

"Come on. We should get back to the Fed building. We'll look up the Pickler's address and go see the family tomorrow. Hopefully Gessler will be able to talk by then."

* * *

"So I have some really juicy information about our mystery woman," Peter said over the phone.

It was late, and Olivia was lounging on her hotel bed in pajamas, watching the lights of New York through the window, wondering if she'd remembered to eat today. Judging from the ache in the pit of her stomach, she hadn't.

"Well?" she asked, propping her torso up on the extra pillow she always brought on trips.

"First you have to answer me a question," Peter teased.

"Okay…" she said, using a tone of voice that conveyed her eye-rolling, and earned her a chuckle.

"Did you eat anything today?" Peter asked.

"…I had breakfast." She lied.

"Good enough. Well, Walter took a look at the blood sample you sent us. Turns out, either Claire is in her 90's and lived through the Spanish Flu, or she was exposed to it in a lab somewhere."

Olivia sat up, her mind racing.

"That is interesting…if she were that old, and born overseas, it could explain why we don't have any records on her. And being exposed in a lab could jive with her working for ZFT. It seems like something they would do."

"And that's not the really juicy part." Peter said.

"What's the juicy part?" she asked eagerly.

"On a hunch, we compared the DNA of your suspect, Gessler, to Claire's. She's his mother!"

"What? Say that again. I thought you said that the women, who looks ten years younger than Gessler, is his mother?"

"Claire is Carl Gessler's mother," Peter confirmed.

"So, does that make it more likely for her to be a lab rat, or a nonagenarian?" Olivia asked, seriously.

"No idea. For some reason Walter got it into his head that Carl is another accelerated growth baby."

"But we have documentation on Carl - birthdate, school, Army career…" Olivia objected.

"Yeah, but Walter seems to have trouble processing that. He's sober, you know?"

"What?" asked Olivia, shocked.

"He's abstaining from drugs, completely. For a week now."

Olivia considered that. Walter without drugs was like….she had a hard time conceiving of anything to compare it to. It was a foreign concept.

"What's he like?" she asked, before the silence from her end went on too long.

"He still has a lot of odd ideas. I think that's just a part of his personality. But…I like it. He's more like the Walter I remember as a kid, from before he went around the bend."

"Maybe all the years at St. Claire's actually did him good." Olivia asserted, not really believing it.

"Maybe…anyway, he's got an appointment with Sumner tomorrow. I hope he'll let him stay off the drugs."

Oliva stiffled a yawn.

"Okay, Peter. I need to get some sleep. We have to talk to Gessler tomorrow, and go visit the Picklers. Talk to you soon."

"Later," Peter said, and hung up.

* * *

The Not-Wall had arrived on a flatbed truck just before lunch, to all appearances, a five foot by ten foot section of red brick wall. It was notably light, though - Peter and Walter had carried it into the lab by themselves, much to the astonishment of a trio of passing students.

Now it was set upright on one of the larger benches, surrounded by an array of scientific instruments - seismic detectors, Geiger counters, high speed cameras and more. Peter picked up an apple from a fruit bowl in his off hand, held it up for Walter to see.

"Should I do the honors?" he asked.

Walter nodded and smiled. "Be my guest, son."

Peter took a pitchers stance, and hurled the fruit at the wall. It passed through unimpeded, and impacted the far wall of the lab with a thump.

Peter turned and looked at Walter, a broad smile on his face - but then he frowned. Walter was staring intently at the Not-Wall, a pained expression on his face.

"Walter? Are you alright?" Peter asked.

Walter nodded.

"It's just…I'm remembering something. Something Belly told me, for safekeeping…"

Peter chuckled, "I bet he regrets that!"

Abruptly, Walter grabbed his coat from the back of a chair.

"Peter, come on. We have to go - somewhere. But first you need to find me a map, and then we have to stop for ice cream…and a book…"

"Walter, wait. We don't have time for a wild goose chase right now. We have your appointment with Sumner at four."

"We can do all that! I just need a copy of The Time Machine."

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment. Then Peter asked, "…You aren't pulling my leg, are you?"

Walter shook his head. "No, Peter. Please, son?"

Peter rolled. "Okay, okay. I know just where to get the book, at least."

* * *

Maura Pickler conveniently still lived in the same house on Long Island that was listed on Thomas Pickler's driver's license, a three bedroom Colonial that had seen better days.

A pre-teen boy, tall and lanky, with a full head of messy brown curls answered the door. Behind him, inside the house, they saw a little girl skipping playfully from one room to the next.

"Who are you?" the boy asked warily.

Olivia smiled as reassuringly as she could.

"I'm Olivia, and this is Astrid. Is your Mom around?"

A dark haired woman appeared in the foyer, took one look and her face fell. She knew. She approached, put a hand on the boys shoulder.

"Danny, can you take your sister out back while we talk?" she asked the boy.

Danny nodded and disappeared inside the house.

Olivia and Astrid both produced and displayed their badges.

"Mrs. Pickler, I'm Agent Olivia Dunham, this is Agent Astrid Farnsworth, we're with the FBI…"

"He's dead, isn't he?" Maura Pickler interrupted.

Olivia nodded. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Maura fidgeted nervously, looking stricken…Astrid stepped forward and took her elbow.

"Come inside, and sit down. Do you feel like answering some questions?" she asked softly.

Maura nodded, and wordlessly led them into the living room, taking a seat in an overstuffed chair while the two agents sat across from her on a couch. The house was meticulously clean, and filled with pictures of the family from happier days.

"If you don't mind my asking…how did…" Maura asked softly.

"As your husband's death is part of another investigation, we aren't able to discuss details…"

Maura was obviously not paying any attention. She sat in her chair, eyes wide, hands fidgeting, staring straight ahead. After a few seconds, she muttered something about the children, and then rubbed at her eyes.

"I'm sorry…I just…I have to use the bathroom," she announced.

The distraught widow stood and walked into the back of the house before they could stop her. They heard a door open and slam shut, then water started running.

"This is a tragedy," Astrid said, "…they seem like a nice family."

Olivia nodded, and stood up. "We shouldn't leave her by herself…"

Olivia walked down the hallway Maura had taken, and found the bathroom. She knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Pickler? Are you…all right?" she asked, feeling like an idiot. Of course she wasn't all right. She supposed it was better than asking, Are you cutting your wrists, or taking pills?

Suddenly the door opened and Maura Pickler focused a malevolent glare on Olivia. Before she could say anything more, the woman reached out a hand and seized Olivia's throat, and lifted her effortlessly into the air. Olivia instinctively brought her hands up and tried to break the mad woman's grip, but the fingers squeezing her windpipe wouldn't budge. Olivia's second instinct was to reach for her gun, but Maura seized her wrist and prevented her from drawing her weapon.

"Don't struggle, this will all be over soon," Maura whispered.

Olivia heard gunshots from the front of the house, which answered the question of why Astrid hadn't appeared. She stopped trying to pry Maura's fingers from her larynx, and instead began kicking her assailant. Maura barely took notice of the beating she was taking.

Olivia raised her free hand hand and brought it down again and again, beating her attackers head and shoulders with as much viciousness as she could muster. Finally, Maura released her throat and Olivia could breathe again. When she landed, she felt an ankle twist painfully, but she ignored the pain and rolled backwards into the corridor, tearing Maura's other hand from her wrist and drawing her pistol in one motion.

Olivia kept firing until Maura collapsed to the floor in a pool of silver blood. Then seeing motion to her left she spun and raised her weapon - to find Astrid striding cautiously up the corridor, her own weapon extended in front of her.

"Olivia! Are you alright?" Astrid asked.

Olivia finally gave in to a coughing fit. Astrid dropped to her knees and caressed her back until the spasms passed.

"Yeah, I'm great," Olivia rasped. "…Astrid, your arm is bleeding."

Indeed, her assistant had several slashes on her left forearm, which were slowly dripping crimson. Defensive wounds, as they said in their line of work.

Astrid glanced at her arm and nodded.

"They came at me with knives from the kitchen," Astrid explained, "…all of them, the kids, the whole family were shapeshifters. I shot the children…"

Then Astrid broke down in tears, and Olivia held her tight.

* * *

Peter took a deep breath of the musty yet pleasant aroma of aging literature after he walked into his friend Markham's book store. He loved the smell of old books, and for some reason, Markham's shop always had a sweeter scent than most such venues. Not finding the diminutive owner behind the counter, he walked into the stock room in the back without hesitation. Walter followed a few steps behind, stopping to examine displayed books that caught his interest.

They found Markham crouched on the floor, sorting a box full of hardcover books into three piles.

"Bishop," Markham said over his shoulder, "What have you got for me today?"

"Nothing to sell, sorry," Peter said with a grin, "How did you know it was me?"

"You're my only customer who comes in smelling of disinfectant."

Markham stood and turned, noticed Walter standing behind Peter.

"Who's the geezer?" he said.

"Geezer?" Walter interjected, "…this must be the small, obnoxious man you talk about Peter."

Markham gazed up at Peter over the lenses of his glasses, taking an air of mock offense.

"Small?" he scoffed, "…I have a big heart, I assure you Doctor Bishop."

"Okay Markham," Peter interrupted, "…what we need today is a copy of H.G. Wells, The Time Machine."

Markham's eyes brightened at the mentions of commerce and speculative fiction, his two favorite topics.

"Really? I just so happen to have a copy of the first edition, in excellent condition. Only six thousand dollars!"

Peter choked on the coffee he was sipping. Walter pounded on his back until he recovered.

"We don't need the first edition, we just need the text," Peter gasped when he could speak again.

"Aw come on, charge it to the government," Markham insisted, "…they waste more money than that on things less worthwhile."

"That would be fraud," Peter said.

"Why would that stop you?" Markham countered.

"We simply need the text, it's a key to a cipher," Walter offered.

"A book code?" queried Markham, his interest piqued.

"Official business," insisted Peter.

Markham sighed. "All right then, mass market paperback it is."

Back in the station wagon, Walter dug a pencil stub out of his coat pocket and began thumbing through the book, circling letters as he found them.

"Page thirty-one, the forty-first letter, page fifty-nine, twenty-sixth letter…"

"Pi," Peter said, "…you used Pi as the key to the cipher."

Walter nodded. "Very astute."

Walter finished finding the letters he needed, then translated them into a sequence of numbers and wrote the result on the inside of the back cover of the book.

"There! That's the combination!" he exclaimed.

"The combination to what?" Peter asked, eager get on with the task at hand.

"I have no idea," Walter said sadly. "I haven't remembered what the combination unlocks yet, or where the lock is. But having that knowledge would be useless anyway, without the combination. And I will remember what it unlocks, in time."

Peter looked at his father for a moment, then started the car. He wasn't even annoyed.

"Let's get to your appointment," he said.

* * *

"You really should be taking it easy Olivia," Astrid said, as they rode the hospital elevator up the fourth floor, where Carl Gessler was being held under guard.

Olivia shook her head. Having already spent an hour being poked and prodded downstairs - the diagnosis being a bruised trachea - she wanted to get on with the investigation. The pain in her neck made her wince when she spoke, but her voice was strong, even though it had a slight rasp.

"I could say the same about you. Your first shooting in the line of duty, and your arm all cut up. I should probably put you behind a desk for a few days, at least."

Astrid shook her head.

"No, I'm alright. It was a shock, but I'm over it now. Shapeshifters aren't human, and if I hadn't done it…"

"Either or both of us would be dead," Olivia interrupted, "…thanks again."

Astrid nodded, but the cloud over her features made Olivia wonder.

The elevator opened, and the two of them walked all the way down the corridor to the east. Two men wearing forest green fatigues were standing outside Gessler's hospital room.

"Agents Dunham, Farnsworth, if you don't mind?" one of the men said, before she could introduce herself.

He surreptitiously held up a lancet and piece of tissue paper, while his partner moved to the other side of the hall, where he would have a clear shot. They didn't appear to be armed, but…

"Of course," Olivia said, and offered her hand.

The guard gently took her hand in his and pricked her finger with the lancet. Olivia's eyes found a patch on the man's shoulder, as he dabbed her finger with a tissue. The patch said "BLACK LIGHT" in black lettering, on a navy blue triangle.

The guard nodded and politely placed a bandaid on her finger. Then he repeated the blood sample and bandage procedure for Astrid, and nodded.

"You can enter, Agents," he said, "Give our regards to Colonel Broyles."

Olivia and Astrid entered Gessler's room.

"You have a problem," Olivia announced to the seemingly unconscious victim.

Gessler was lying in a hospital bed, with several monitors attached to him and tubes in his nose to assist his breathing. His left hand was cuffed to the bed. At her words, he opened his eyes and chuckled, then coughed and winced.

"Ouch," he said, "Tell me something I don't know. I let a shapeshifter stab me in the back. What's worse, you let him into the Fed building."

Olivia pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. Astrid stood next to her.

"We've instituted our anti-shapeshifter procedures. Everybody at the Federal Building is getting a blood test, today. And we have guards from a different chain of command outside the door, so you should be safe enough for now. But…"

"But you want something from me," Carl finished for her.

"Why was the Shapeshifter after you?" Olivia asked.

Carl looked at her.

"Haven't you figured it out? Because we're after them. We've been fighting the invasion since the early eighties. We manage to hunt down and kill a handful of them per year. Now and then, they identify one of us and hit back, but that's not their priority. "

"You're fighting the Shapeshifters? I thought the ZFT was…a terrorist organization." Astrid asked.

Gessler shook his head.

"You only ever dealt with Jones and his splinter group. He broke away over a decade ago, before I was recruited. I guess he had too much ego to take orders. But he was charismatic, so he took people with him. The…orthodox ZFT kept up the fight."

"How did the Shapeshifter know you were here?" Olivia asked.

Gessler smirked.

"Oh, come on. You know how, you just don't want to believe it. They have somebody high up in the government working for them. Higher up than you, and your boss, high enough up that top secret reports cross his desk. Whoever it is, they noticed an opportunity and took it. We've been trying to figure out who it is for years."

Olivia sat back and nodded. Everything he said squared with her suspicions, the suspicions she hadn't even discussed with Broyles yet.

"How were you recruited into ZFT?" Olivia asked, "…you were in the Army, what happened?"

Gessler smiled.

"Claire happened. She came to me ten years ago, said she needed a good soldier…"

"And you wanted to get to know your mother," Olivia interrupted.

Gessler stared at her, startled. "How did you figure it out?"

"Had our lab in Boston compare your DNA to hers. We can't figure out she could possibly be your mother, but genetics doesn't lie."

Gessler was silent for a long time, then looked at Olivia and started talking.

"I was an orphan. Lucky, because I was adopted by a good family at a young age. Ten years ago, Claire showed up, when I was on leave in Spain, claiming to be my birth mother. Naturally, I was suspicious, so I demanded a blood test, which she passed, and I suddenly had the chance to get to know my birth mother. We left to travel the world together, and over the next few months she convinced me of the righteousness of the cause. And I joined ZFT."

"How is it that she appears so young?" Astrid asked.

"She never told me the full story. Just that she had been the subject of an experiment in her youth. I inferred from things she said while we were in Europe, that it was the Nazis in World War Two that had done the experimenting, while she was a young girl. But she never really wanted to talk about it. I...got the impression that she hadn't volunteered for whatever was done to her."

Olivia and Astrid looked at each other. The mention of Nazis and experimentation had raised the spectre of two recent cases. Astrid asked the next question.

"Does the name Alfred Hoffman mean anything to you?"

Gessler shook his head. "No. Why?"

Olivia smirked. "He might have been a contemporary of your mother."

Gessler shrugged. "She was always wary about mentioning names."

Olivia nodded. "That's understandable. Look, I can probably arrange for some leniency from the court, but you have come clean. You have to tell us what you were after."

Gessler nodded, thought for a moment.

"I don't know all the details, I'm just a soldier, not a scientist. What we were doing was looking for a numerical sequence that had been implanted in those scientists' brains. I don't know the significance of the numbers themselves. After we got the number we were to implant some false memories to cover what we did, and return them to what they were doing. Heh."

Gessler laughed. Olivia raised an eyebrow.

"What's funny?" she ased.

"Oh…just the way things work out. We were going to move on to Boston the morning after you raided us. Another day after that, and we would have been long gone."

"What's in Boston?" Olivia asked.

Gessler sobered. "The last scientist we were supposed to interrogate. Walter Bishop."

* * *

"Sir! You can't just go in there without..."

"Don't even THINK of trying to stop me, miss," said a voice very familiar to Peter,"…This is a matter of national security."

Peter looked up from the Popular Mechanics magazine he was perusing, as the tall, lean figure of Agent Phillip Broyles burst through the door into the waiting area of Sumner's office at St Claire's Mental Hospital. He was wearing his ever present suit and overcoat. What made Peter drop his magazine and rise to his feet was the fact that Broyles was holding his gun, though it was discreetly pointed at the floor.

"Broyles! What's happening?" Peter asked.

"Peter! You didn't answer your phone. Where is your father?"

Broyles eyes scanned the people in the waiting room, one by one, as he talked to Peter.

"I get bad reception out here. Walter is with Sumner, now. What's going on?"

Broyles moved toward Sumners office and Peter followed close behind.

"Dunham tried calling you, then called me when she couldn't reach you. The man in custody woke up and started talking. Walter is another target of the ZFT crew…"

Broyles gestured for Peter to open the door to Sumners' spacious office and Peter did so, then followed Broyles into the room.

Which was empty.

"What the..." Peter exclaimed. "Where's Walter? Where are they?"

Then it was Broyles turn to follow Peter, as he ran back to the receptionist.

"Where are Sumner and my father?" Peter asked her, coldly.

"I'm not allowed to..." The woman started to say, but was interrupted by Broyles.

"Ma'am, Doctor Walter Bishop is a vital national asset. If you don't tell us his whereabouts immediately, you could be looking at a trip to Guantanamo Bay. And trust me, you won't enjoy the tropical climate."

The receptionist stared at Broyles over the rims of her glasses, and a very brief contest of wills ensued. The woman blanched, and stuttered.

"The basement," she said, "...they're in the basement. Take the stairwell, down the hall."

"What are they doing in the basement?" Peter said through clenched teeth, his anger rising.

"Come on, Peter," Broyles said, and Peter followed him out of the office, into the hallway. They found the indicated stairwell and went down.

The basement was mostly used for storage, and apparently only rarely entered until recently. In the dim, flickering fluorescent light, they could see two sets of footprints in the fine layer of dust on the concrete floor, which they followed down the corridor to a heavy steel door. Lights flickered inside, visible through the fogged glass of the small window set at eye height.

Peter grasped the heavy latch and looked at Broyles, who nodded and raised his pistol. Peter heaved the heavy door open, and the veteran FBI agent lunged through.

"Freeze! FBI!", his yell echoed down the corridor.

Walter Bishop lay reclined in what looked like a sophisticated dentist's chair, a metal halo mounted on his head. The halo had eight wires, leading to eight boxes arrayed around the chair, and the boxes had cables that plugged into another box on a nearby table. Another cable emerged from this box, curled along the floor, and plugged into a laptop on a nearby card table, behind which Doctor Bruce Sumner sat, in a metal folding chair, observing readings.

Startled, Sumner rocketed out of his chair as if he'd sat on a pin. He backed away, hands raised in a defensive posture.

"Shit!" The psychiatrist exclaimed, "...hey, this isn't what it looks like, I can explain..."

Face flushed with rage, Peter strode forward, ignoring Sumner's pleas. Sumner squealed when a knee was propelled into his crotch, and doubled over in pain, only to find his descending face intercepted by Peter's right uppercut. His nose exploded. Sumner wailed and fell on the floor, and grunted loudly when he received a last kick in the abdomen.

Sumner lay on the ground, gasping for air, finding it hard to breathe through his broken nose. Peter seemed to lose interest, as if he were a toddler who had found a new toy, and moved over to examine the screen of he laptop.

Finally, Sumner felt well enough to speak.

"You let him beat me!" He whined to Broyles, as the tall agent rolled him onto his stomach - none too gently - and cuffed Sumner's hands behind his back.

"You shouldn't have resisted arrest," Broyles said.

Broyles turned to Peter.

"Can you get him out of there safely?" He asked indicating Walter with a nod.

Peter glanced over from the laptop.

"I think so, but you should call an ambulance, just to be on the safe side. I put the chair at the lab together from Astrid's directions, this doesn't seem to be any different."

"Peter?" Walter moaned groggily.

Peter approached his father and took his hand, crouched at his side.

"It's okay Dad. I'll have you out of here soon."


	5. Chapter 5

France, September 1944

Claire waited for death to finally claim her, in a dark basement that reeked with the stench of decaying bodies. She was strapped securely into a hard wooden chair, as she had spent most of the last several years as the men with cold eyes carried out their experiments on her, and the others with her.

Normally, the basement was filled with little noises - breathing, gasps of pain, snores when someone managed to sleep. Some time ago, she had heard explosions in the distance - the Allies were bombing, or the Nazis were trying to trying to hold onto their stolen lands. After that, the scientists had stopped the experiments, and the guards had stopped feeding the human guinea pigs in the lab.

Both groups had fled as the explosions came ever closer, abandoning their charges in the basement.

Gradually, the sounds of her miserable companions had faded away, until she only heard the echoes of her own breathing.

But now she heard a nearby commotion, a door being forced open, sensed rather than saw a light entering the room, then heard gasps of horror and somebody retching.

"This is worse than I ever imagined," a woman's voice said, in German.

"Let's not spend any more time here than we have to," a man replied, "...check to see if anybody is alive in this...hellhole. And get samples from the dead."

"Why did they just leave them like this?", the woman asked.

"Wondering why the Nazis do something is useless, Sophie," replied a different man, with a deeper voice, "...I think of them as cockroaches. They flee before the light."

"Ah, my poetic Robert," the woman said, as she started to examine the dead.

Claire felt a hand pressed to her neck and she flinched involuntarily, then heard a surprised gasp and exclamation, "...This girl is alive, Robert help me!"

"Praise God," the man said, "...let's get the shackles off her and get her outside in the fresh air."

Outside, lying on the grass in the sunshine, sipping water from a canteen, she became fully aware of her surroundings for the first time in months. The laboratory was encircled by khaki uniformed American soldiers bustling about, loading things into a convoy of idling flatbed trucks.

Claire could barely move without assistance. Years of abuse and neglect had left her emaciated and pale.

The woman crouched beside her was gently cleaning and bandaging her wrists and ankles, where the shackles had bitten into her flesh. A tall man sat nearby, sorting a tray of blood samples and taking notes in a small leather-bound book. He turned a sympathetic gaze on her, and fingered a silver cross that hung from his neck, then returned to his duties.

"What's your name, little angel, how old are you?" Sophie asked in fluent French.

"Claire," she replied, "Twenty-one."

Sophie's eyes widened and she glanced at Robert, who stood up, approached and looked at the girl on the ground.

"She doesn't look a day over twelve," he said.

"Robert? I was bandaging her wrists...but they've already healed. What's going on?"

"_Jungbrunnen_," Robert muttered, as he crouched next to Sophie, "What did they do to you, poor soul? I need a blood sample...one more needle I'm afraid, brave little girl."

* * *

"Walter, it's just for one night, I think I can survive without you for twelve hours," Peter said, as he watched his father try to adjust the bedclothes and IV into a more comfortable arrangement.

The Bishops were back in the hospital, this time Walter being the one admitted. Although he seemed to have come through Sumner's drug induced and electroshock assisted interrogation without harm, Peter had insisted on his father remaining in the hospital for observation.

Walter seemed to be taking it about as well as he expected.

"Oh, it's not that, it's just I don't have anything to keep me occupied," Walter grumbled, "I realize I that get into trouble with nothing to do."

Peter arched an eyebrow at him. The newly sober and self-aware Walter was constantly surprising him - but in a good way.

"I have Velvet Sedan Chair on my iPod," he offered.

Walter looked intrigued. "You do?"

Peter nodded, and produced the player and earbuds from an inside pocket of his peacoat. He called up the music in question, and a minute later Walter was listening happily, an angelic smile on his features.

"Well, it's not vinyl, but this is nice," he offered, "What else is on here?"

Peter smiled.

"Most of your old stuff that I've digitized, pops, scratches and all. And a lot of my jazz and blues."

"Blues - terrible music," Walter muttered, "…why anyone would make music celebrating despondency…"

Peter grinned.

"You should try Coltrane, I think you'd like him."

"Peter?" said a deep voice from the door.

Hearing his name, the younger Bishop turned around. Broyles was standing in the corridor outside. Peter nodded, and turned back to Walter.

"Okay Walter, I'll pick you up in the morning. Stay out of trouble!"

Walter waved, distracted by the music he was listening to, and Peter joined Agent Broyles in the corridor.

"Thanks again, Phillip," he said.

Broyles nodded.

"I'm just glad I got there in time. How is Walter?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder at his father, who was singing along to something playing on the iPod.

"Good. I may be overcautious, but Walter is getting more stable every day. I don't want to jeopardize that...All the years he spent under Sumner's care…was he helping or hurting him?"

Broyles eyes showed a flicker of understanding He nodded, spoke low.

"You think your father's madness was…induced?" he asked.

Peter shrugged.

"Well, given the circumstances, you really have to wonder. Have you gotten anything out of Sumner?"

Broyles frowned.

"No, he lawyered up as soon as we put him in an interrogation room. I'm going to let him stew in solitary for a few days before I talk to him again. And if he doesn't talk...well, I can arrange a stay in Gitmo for a few months."

Broyles waved at Walter and left. Walter beckoned Peter back to his bedside, and handed him a crumpled piece of paper when he approached. Unfolded, the paper had a scrawled series of numbers - written in pencil on the back of a sheet torn from a doctor's prescription pad.

"I almost forgot," Walter said, "I remembered these while the doctors were working on me."

"What are these numbers, Walter?" Peter asked, curious.

"I don't know. I just remembered the numbers themselves. But you're a bright boy, I thought you could figure it out."

Peter rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Without any context? Okay, it's not like I was looking forward to a night off, or anything."

* * *

Claire arrived early for her meeting with Nina Sharp, but the CEO of Massive Dynamic was already there, and she wasn't alone.

Claire glanced around the interior of the restaurant. Nina sat in a booth in the far corner, sipping tea. Nearby, sitting at another table, were two burly men in black suits - obvious Massive Dynamic muscle. There was another heavy pretending to talk into his cell phone in the foyer leading to the rest rooms. And another pair sat at the counter near the entrance, ready to provide backup for the other three.

Five goons. She wondered what Sharp's plan was. Oh well, fortune favors the bold. She strode through the restaurant, hands in the pockets of her jacket, and sat down across from Nina.

"Claire," Sharp acknowledged.

"Nina," Claire said, "…have you made any progress in getting Carl released?"

"Claire…you must be patient. These things take time. As you know, Doctor Bell is forced to work through intermediaries…"

Claire sighed.

"I may not have as much time as you think," she said.

Nina frowned.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You should ask Bell about that. I'm sure he knows what I'm talking about."

As Nina responded, Claire could feel the eyes of the Massive Dynamic security agents upon her. She glanced at each of them in turn,noting their relative position, then returned her attention to Nina Sharp.

"…We could come to an arrangement. We want you to come in, dear. We'll provide for all your needs, keep you safe, while Doctor Bell works to have Carl released."

Claire violently shook her head, replied in a harsh whisper.

"No! I'm not letting anyone put me in a lab again. And I have my own resources. If you won't help me get Carl back, I'll have to do it on my own."

Nina nervously scratched the back of one hand, and on cue the security agents began to converge on the table, hands reaching into coats, producing weapons.

Claire shook her head and chuckled.

"You're a fool, Ms. Sharp," she said, loud enough that the goons could hear.

"Please, Claire. Come quietly, we'll see to your every need," Nina begged.

"I don't think so," Claire spat, as she turned to meet the first of the agents, rising from her seat gracefully. One of her hands descended on the man's wrist, preventing him from bringing his weapon, a taser, to bear. Her other hand rose and found the nerve just above the elbow. The thug winced, gasped and rose up on his toes, trying to relieve the pain of an arm that was suddenly on fire. Claire crouched and spun, redirected momentum and threw him into his compatriots, who had clustered together, attempting to cut off her escape route.

Then she was back up and running. As she ran, she pulled a small device from her jacket pocket, a cylinder of black plastic, and pressed a button on it with her thumb. The cylinder began a high-pitched whine, as it charged its capacitors.

One of the Massive Dynamic heavies, undoubtably one with military experience, witnessed this and yelled, "GRENADE!" before knocking Nina Sharp to the ground and covering her bodily - followed by several of his comrades. This created a state of panic and confusion in the restaurant, inadvertently aiding Claire's escape.

Claire threw the device at the nearest wall, and it seemed to merge with the brick and mortar, which disappeared. She took a flying leap at the now not-completely existent barrier, and passed through unharmed to the astonishment of onlookers, both inside the restaurant, and on the sidewalk outside.

She rolled once to absorb the impact and leaped to her feet, then ran across the crowded street and disappeared into an alleyway.

Inside the restaurant, Nina Sharp was still covered in a mound of panicked guards.

"Get off of me, you oafs!" she growled.

Once the security agents had gotten up and helped her to her feet, amidst a chorus of apologies, Sharp dusted herself off and sighed.

"So much for the easy resolution," she muttered, "…and I was so hoping to get this situation under control."

* * *

"You look much healthier," Olivia told Gessler, as she pulled up a chair next to his hospital bed.

Gessler did look very relaxed as he lay in the bed, with one wrist shackled and a myriad of leads and tubes still attached to him. His color was much better than the previous day, and he seemed to be breathing much easier.

Gessler nodded.

"I feel a lot better. So what happened? Have you located my mother?"

"We apprehended Sumner while he was starting to interrogate Doctor Bishop. I want to thank you for that - besides working with him every day, Walter is a good friend of mine, and you've spared him harm. I'll be sure to mention that when we're negotiating with the prosecutor. As far as your mother goes, we haven't seen a trace of her. If you can help with that…"

Gessler shrugged.

"Sumner was a dick, anyways. I'll enjoy seeing him behind bars. As I understood it Sumner's primary task, given from on high, was to keep Bishop under wraps. He was a danger for some reason, but could be useful in the future. So they stuck him in that hole for safekeeping."

Something twisted inside Olivia…according to Peter, Walter was slowly becoming more sane off his meds…what if the ZFT had arranged things that way?

"It sounds like…I should look into the lab fire that got Walter committed," she told Gessler.

He nodded.

"You probably should. Mind you - I don't know this, it's before my time in the ZFT. But it sounds like something they would do."

"Is there anything you can tell me that would help us locate Claire?"

Gessler sighed. Undoubtably he had reservations about ratting out his mother, so anything he gave her would have to be taken with a grain of salt. But he'd been helpful so far, so she had to give him a chance.

"She always had resources and contacts she kept to herself. Supplies and equipment stashed ahead of time. She'd be desperate to get me back, though. I know that. She might do something…proactive."

Olivia snorted.

"Try to take you from us? We've had all the other patients on this floor moved and we have a black ops unit guarding you. It'd be crazy for her to try that."

Gessler grinned.

"Well, it sounds like you've got it handled, then. I wouldn't worry about it."

Olivia stared at him for a moment, before getting up and leaving. Once outside in the hospital corridor, she called Broyles.

"Sir, it's Agent Dunham. I just talked to Gessler, and he implied that Claire would be making a move to get him back. I think we double the guard…and move him to another room."

She listened for a moment as she walked down the corridor. Then she nodded to no one.

"Yes sir, thank you sir," she acknowledged, as her superior agreed to her request.

Once in the elevator, she made another call.

"Astrid? It's Olivia. I have a favor to ask. I want you to start looking into the fire at Walter's lab eighteen years ago. But I don't know if there's anything there, so please do it quietly..."

* * *

There are cities beneath cities. Miles of sewers, service tunnels and sub-basements, sparsely populated by the indigent, the insane and the antisocial, and rarely thought about by the denizens of the city above.

Clare Mathieu moved through the dark in the city beneath New York, only occasionally using a flashlight to check her bearings. She knew exactly where she was going - but if one of her episodes of memory loss occurred down here, it could be disastrous.

A man in tattered clothes emerged from a side passage ahead of her. Warily, she moved to the far side of the corridor as she passed parallel to him. He stared at her and made a clucking noise as she passed by, but continued on his shuffling way.

After nearly an hour of picking her way carefully, she turned on her flashlight and found it - the faded rectangular chalk outline she had left decades before, to mark the entrance into the sub-basement of the New Yorker hotel. Not the New Yorker Hotel of mundane reality, but one in some other place or time. A different realm. She didn't pretend to understand the science of its existence - she had William Bell, among others, to worry about the details of trans-dimensional engineering.

Claire took a deep breath, and walked through the wall, feeling a slight tingle as she did so. She stumbled slightly, cursed, and emerged into a dim, dusty basement room, felt a wave of mild nausea, and stood swaying for a moment as she got her bearings. As ever, the walls seemed to curve in on themselves, and shadows cut impossible, grotesque shapes. Bell had explained that was a perceptual effect - that walls weren't actually curving toward the center of the room. Still, it gave visitors a feeling of nausea and a sense of unease.

Which was good, because it kept vermin, human and otherwise, out of the empty hotel.

Inside the basement was a cache of supplies and equipment she had squirreled away over decades. ZFT made sure its agents had cutting edge technology, and it was easy enough to for such to be lost or destroyed upon contact with the enemy.

At least that was she told her superiors. Whether they believed her was another matter.

Claire poked through the boxes, sorting what she wanted into a small stack by the exit. A few minutes later, echoes of feet on concrete alerted her to someone's presence behind her - whoever it was must have entered the hotel before her. The door opened behind her.

Claire spun, drew her handgun and pointed it at the shadowy figure framed by the doorway.

"Come out where I can see you," she ordered.

The man stepped into the light. He was tall, about six feet, with a trim, athletic frame, brown hair, blue eyes. In his early forties, he wore slacks and a brown wool jacket over a sweater vest. A blue bow tie completed his professorial garb. When he spoke, it was English, with a familiar slightly-German, slightly-British accent.

"Hello, Claire," the shade of Robert Bishop said, "…how long has it been?"

* * *

"Olivia, I want you to know that I was very drunk, and with Markham," Peter announced over the phone.

Despite her exhaustion, and the lateness of the hour, a smile erupted on Olivia's face when she heard Peter's voice. Being in New York without him had made her realize how much she liked having him around. She was going to have to do something about that - soon.

"You sound very hungover," she teased. "How is Walter? And what does Markham have to do with anything?"

"Walter is fine. I had them keep him in the hospital as a precaution, though. Markham has nothing to do with anything, except that he's the one that got me drunk," Peter replied.

There was a pregnant pause, then he finished with, "…and we may need an ex post facto search warrant."

Her smile disappeared. Convincing a judge to sign a search warrant for something you'd already seized was no laughing matter.

"Okay, Peter. Start at the beginning?"

"I don't think it's a book code," Peter announced and belched, "…book codes don't have negative numbers."

Peter was sitting at the table in the back of Markham's store, across from the proprietor himself. He'd shown up an hour earlier with a case of imported German beer, a large pizza with the works, and the piece of paper with a series of numbers written out by his father.

Of course, Markham was eager to help.

"Maybe you have to count backward from the last page. And if it's not a book code, why did you come here?" Markham asked, and bit sloppily into another slice of pizza.

Peter shrugged.

"We haven't done this in awhile, and I have the night off, sort of."

"Well, all I was gonna do was go home and heat up some soup, so thanks," replied Markham.

Markham put down his pizza, still chewing and picked up the paper, stared at the series of numbers. He swallowed and took a sip of beer, before asking, "Is your dad's brain a random number generator?"

"What?" asked Peter.

"Does your dad's brain just spit out numbers randomly? If not, then there's a pattern to these numbers. Something relevant to your father."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Peter said.

"Of course, that's assuming the numbers were produced by your dad's head," Markham said.

"What do you mean?" Peter said, as he disposed of the pizza box.

"Well, somebody could be beaming these numbers into your dad's head. Ultralow frequency radio waves and all that. Look it up."

Peter stared at Markham.

Markham frowned.

"You think I'm crazy," he said.

Peter shook his head, guzzled the last of his beer.

"You are crazy. It's just that's creepily like the case we're working on right now."

Seeing his friend's eager look, Peter held up both hands in a "Stop!" gesture.

"…That I can't talk about," he added.

"Awww, man," Markham complained.

"Anyways, I think we're overthinking this. Mind if I use your laptop?"

Markham waved in the direction of the nearby computer.

"Go ahead."

Assuming the numbers were coordinates, Peter plugged them into a mapping site, and it coughed up a building in downtown Boston. Looking at the location in street view, he saw that it was a brick commercial building, but one without any sign to identify it. He plugged the address into a database of commercial properties.

Bingo. The building was owned by a Simon Paris. Immediately connections started forming in his head. Doctor Simon Paris was his father's only visitor in seventeen years of confinement at St Claire's. But Walter couldn't remember him.

"Let's call a cab," he told Markham.

* * *

The building they found was an edifice of red brick that had clearly seen better days. Markham swayed drunkenly, staring up at it while Peter paid the cab driver. When Peter began to go around the building, Markham rushed to catch up.

"Uh, shouldn't we get a warrant, or something?" he asked.

Peter laughed.

"Why we would need a warrant if we don't know what's inside," Peter said.

"Right," Markham replied, dubious.

"Besides, neither of us is law enforcement, we don't need a warrant."

"Your logic is flawless," Markham said, shaking his head.

They found a small, ground level window. Peter glanced around to see if there were any witnesses, then crouched and smashed the glass with his elbow. Then he stood up and looked at his small friend.

Markham had a sinking feeling.

"What?" he asked.

Peter grinned.

"Do you think I can fit through there? Crawl through, go around and open the door for me."

Markham grumbled, but eager as he was to participate in an investigation, he crawled through.

A few minutes later, Markham let Peter into the building. The interior was dusty and unfurnished, leaving the impression that the facility wasn't being actively used for anything.

"There are a bunch of file cabinets in the basement, you might want to take a look," Markham said, gesturing for Peter to follow.

Sure enough, the basement was lined, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, with old fashioned wooden filing cabinets. Peter and Markham began opening them and riffling through papers.

"German and English," muttered Markham, "…seem to be scientific reports."

For his part, Peter had a sense of deja vu. At the bottom of a yellowing, typewritten report to the Office of Scientific Research and Development - which he vaguely remembered was a Second World War era government agency - he found a familiar, elaborate signature.

_Robert Bishop._

There were a few other names attached to reports and letters on scientific topics - but by far, the most common name encountered was his grandfather.

* * *

"So let me get this straight. Walter gave you a set of numbers. The numbers led you to a building downtown, which you broke into. Inside you found a lot of files belonging to your grandfather."

"Yeah, that's about it," Peter acknowledged.

There was a pause on the line - he was obviously waiting for her to scold him.

"Good work, Peter. Don't worry about it - we've already determined that the name Simon Paris was an alias, for whom we don't know. You didn't need a warrant. I'm going to call Broyles, have him send over a forensics team. We'll have the files moved to the lab, where you and Walter can look at them."

She heard Peter sigh on the other end.

"What I want to know is, what are my grandfather's reports doing in Paris' storage space? This should be U.S. government property. Who is this guy?"

* * *

"You're not real," Claire blurted, startled by the presence before her. She clicked the safety on her pistol and slid it into her waistband, as she eyed the spectre warily.

It was generally far better to ignore such emanations, in this hotel or in other places like it. At least that was what Bell had told her. The few she had encountered over the years had been stereotypically ghostlike, fading in and out of existence before her eyes. They also hadn't seemed to have much volition, only following set patterns of behavior.

But this one appeared to be flesh and blood. Hell, she even caught a whiff of his aftershave.

"Is that so?" the shade said, in an amused tone.

"You're a ghost, a projection, a tulpa," Claire insisted.

"Tulpa," Robert mused, thinking out loud, "…you're saying I'm a thought-form, a material projection of your subconscious desires? Have you visited Tibet lately?"

Claire moved to the pile of boxes, continued sorting through equipment.

"I've been thinking about you, lately, about what happened. But as soon as I leave, you'll fade away into the ether, for lack of a better term," she said over her shoulder.

"Really?" Robert sighed.

Some sixth sense made Claire duck her head to the side. A piece of cement passed through the space her cranium had vacated and shattered against the wall, spraying dust.

"Robert." Claire pleaded, "Please…"

"Even if what you say is true," Robert interrupted her, "…I don't particularly like the idea of fading away into the ether."

"It's not my fault…" Claire started to say, but was interrupted again.

"…But what you need to ask yourself is, how did I know you'd arrived in the hotel?" Robert said.

Claire stopped and stared at him.

Robert grinned and pointed a finger upward.

"Oh, my. How long has it been? You didn't notice my trip wire? When you walked through the wall it turned on a light, upstairs."

Claire stared at him. Then she looked at the gap in the wall where she had entered the basement of the hotel. There was a thin piece of copper wire on the floor that she had obviously pulled loose from the wall. She'd tripped coming in, but hadn't bothered to check what had tripped her.

"Claire," Robert said, "…it's been so long since I've had someone to talk to. Time barely passes here. We could talk it over…for decades."

Claire seized a box that contained what she really needed - the plasma stunner - and fled.

* * *

"Oh my, you look like you had quite a night on the town, son," Walter said, as soon as Peter walked into his hospital room.

Walter looked quite rested and healthy, and, judging by the empty tray on the table before him, had just had breakfast. In contrast, Peter had gotten less than three hours of sleep, had skipped breakfast for fear of vomiting, and looked tired and disheveled.

"First - don't talk so loud. Second, get dressed. I did a lot more than get drunk last night. We're going to the lab," Peter said, not too grumpily. After all, his hangover was his own damn fault.

"An excellent idea. I have the perfect hangover cure for you," Walter said, as he threw off his hospital gown, "…we'll have to stop at the market, picked up some pickled herring."

Peter groaned in dismay.

* * *

Surprisingly, Walter's hangover cure of pickled herring, scrambled eggs and salsa worked like a charm - and didn't taste bad either.

"It's the combination of salt and acids," Walter said, "…just what you need after a night of excess."

Whatever the reason, Peter was almost back to normal when the trucks carrying the contents of Simon Paris' warehouse began arriving. The Bishops spent most of the morning hauling the boxes full of documents and equipment into the lab, then set about examining them.

"All of these documents seem to be reports on Nazi science experiments found by the allies after the D-Day invasion," Peter said, riffling through a file folder.

"Your grandfather would have been uniquely qualified. He had worked for the Ministry of Science, after all," Walter replied.

Peter shook his head.

"Some of this stuff is just crazy, and Granddad says so. Remote controlled bomber zeppelins. Trained attack dolphins. Exploding kittens…oh hello."

Peter removed a black case from a box, and opened it. It contained a single vial of bright red fluid. Peter removed it, examined the smudged label, and shook his head.

"I can't read the label," he declared.

"Let me see that," Walter said, and Peter handed it to him as he inspected the other contents of the box.

Walter held the glass tube up to the light to better examine the crimson liquid inside. Then he shook it, and watched the contents stir and then slowly settle. With a pensive look, he twisted the cap off and brought the container up to his face.

"Walter!" Peter objected, too late.

Walter sniffed at the vial, and replaced the cap.

"Blood," he said, grinning at Peter, "...did you think I was going to drink it? Because that would be crazy!"

"Stop it," Peter replied, annoyed.

"The fascinating thing is, the blood is still liquid."

"Treated with anticoagulant?" guessed Peter.

Walter moved to a nearby microscope, prepared a slide with the blood in question, and examined it through the eyepiece.

"Hmmm, now that is fascinating," he muttered.

"What?" Peter asked, as he walked over.

"Not only has the blood not coagulated, I think the blood is still alive," Walter said.

"I'm afraid I don't have time for proper introductions," came a female voice, from behind them.

Father and son turned and looked in unison.

Claire Mathieu stood in the middle of the lab, holding the bulky stun weapon in her hands.

"I'm in a hurry, you see," she continued.

Claire pointed the muzzle of the stunner at Peter and pulled the trigger. A line of blue-white lightning struck him in the chest and he collapsed to the floor in a heap.

"Peter!" cried Walter and started to rush to his son, but was interrupted by an echoing whistle from Claire.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Bishop, but your son will be fine. He should wake up in ten minutes or so. But you must come with me."


End file.
